

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 







DONALD MaoDONALD 



Donald MacDonald 


JOSEPHINE 


BY 

HOLT THROCKMORTON 


New York and Washington 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1907 


USRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

JUN 3 

Cnpyneht Ewby 

cuss *CK KXC„ No. ; 

/77zz< 

COPY B. 


Copyright, 1907, by 

JOSEPHINE HOLT THROCKMORTON 


DONALD Macdonald 









CHAPTER I 


It is Sunday night at West Point. A 
rosy glow covers the sky. Down from the 
Hudson comes the cool breeze that in sum- 
mer time makes life worth the living. Wait- 
ing near the parade ground are numbers of 
West Point summer girls, anxiously watch- 
ing the great human cross composed of the 
gray and white cadets. On comes the cross, 
with colors flying in the center. Finally 
the cross — the emblem the Crusaders 
fought and died for, the sign of courage, 
fortitude, and, best of all, of forgiveness — 
melts away, and the men take their places 
in the ranks. Standing over in the shadow 
of the barracks are members of the plebe 
class who have just reported for duty. 
They are a great contrast to the well-set-up 
and well-drilled boys in white and gray. 
Among them are representatives from all 
the States, but the only one in which we 
have special interest is a loose- jointed 
young Irishman, rosy-cheeked, red-headed. 


8 


DONALD Macdonald 


John Tracy by name — John Tracy, from 
New York City. John is bright and ener- 
getic, and he soon takes a stand among his 
classmates. He is aristocratic in his tastes, 
and looks down upon the more humble 
members of his class, who, in their turn, re- 
gard him as a descendant of some family 
of great importance in American history. 
It was not until he became a third class- 
man that John^s true origin became known. 

One day in the riding hall, when the 
third class was being instructed in mounted 
exercise, an exhibition of hurdle jumping 
was given, and as the horse ridden by John 
Tracy made a particularly fine jump a 
rich Irish voice shouted, enthusiastically, 
‘‘Hoorroor! Well lept, John, my boy! Well 
lept ! ’ ’ 

The joyous words attracted the attention 
of both cadets and spectators, and they 
found that the voice was that of a little old- 
fashioned Irishman, dressed in his Sunday 
clothes, broadcloth coat, trousers rather too 
large for him, and a shabby satin beaver 
that had doubtless been worn at many a St. 
Patrick’s day celebration. The honest little 
man took great pleasure in informing them 
all that the best boy of the bunch was his 


DONALD Macdonald 


9 


own son John, every inch a Tracy and as 
likely a gossoon as ever stepped, the livin’, 
breathin’ image of his mither, who died 
awhile back before the family immigrated 
to America, when John was the size of 
his fist. 

After this explanation there was none 
humble enough to stand aside for ‘^Eed 
Tracy, ” as he came to be called, and when- 
ever he showed his spurs any cadet, plebe 
though he might be, could bring him to time 
by shouting, ‘‘Well lept, John!” The mem- 
bers of his class when he attracted too 
much attention from the pretty girls at a 
hop always implored “Eed John” to go 
scrub the brogue from his old daddy’s 
tongue. It did not take many months of 
this treatment to reduce John to his “prop- 
er” level. Moreover, he took all jibes so 
good-naturedly that the knowledge among 
the cadets that Tracy’s father was an illit- 
erate old Irishman did not diminish his 
popularity in the least. Tracy studied hard 
and was an excellent soldier, and the first 
year passed pleasantly enough. Then the 
joy of the cadets’ heart came at last, the 
furlough summer. 

Now, for Eed Tracy furlough meant go- 


10 


DONALD Macdonald 


ing back to a great deal that he despised. 
He had taken kindly to his life at the 

Point,’’ and the more he knew of the offi- 
cers and their wives the more he realized 
what his future life would be, and the more 
clearly he saw that intercourse with his 
family would be impossible after he won 
his long-coveted commission. He deter- 
mined to keep his people in the background 
and never allow them to be his guests at 
garrison. Yet in spite of his resolutions, 
’way down in Tracy’s heart, corroded with 
selfishness as it was, there was a tender 
spot for his old father who had sacrificed 
so much for him. 

Tracy knew the old man had kept him at 
school long after other boys of his circum- 
stances were at work. Old man Tracy had 
carried a hod for years after he came to 
America, then he had a streak of luck and 
was employed by an expressman. He had 
long, weary, working hours, but he had 
saved, and in time bought the business. 
Prom an express business to a saloon of his 
own was a big, strong step, but old man 
Tracy made it, and his first and great am- 
bition was to make a gentleman of his son 
John. 


DONALD MacDONALD 11 

When Donovan of his district ran for as- 
semblyman, Tracy worked for him, and 
again when he ran for the State Senate, 
and afterwards for Congress. It was at 
Tracy’s that those who worked and voted 
for Donovan could get free drinks, and they 
got them. 

Tracy’s bills were pretty big that month 
and his receipts were small, ‘‘but sure,” 
said he, “what do I care, for it is all for 
John,” and when Donovan was elected he 
stood to the letter of his bond and Tracy’s 
boy got the first appointment to West 
Point that was in his giving. The boy went 
to the Point backed by every advantage of 
the New York public schools, and passed 
both physical and mental examinations 
without trouble. His father was a proud 
old Irishman the day he heard the news. 

There were no women in John’s immedi- 
ate family, except some first cousins, chil- 
dren of old Tracy’s sister, so that John had 
no difficulty in keeping them away from the 
Point ; but he knew well that to attempt to 
avoid them in New York City was some- 
thing that his father would resent. 

The boys left the Point on the same boat 
going down to the city, and it was a merry 


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DONALD MaoDONALD 


party ; to get away from all rules and regu- 
lations for a few weeks, how thankful they 
all were! John forgot about his relatives 
and was one of the happiest aboard. When 
they landed he cut loose from the other 
boys and hurried home. He had resolved 
to go away on some trip as soon as he could 
get permission from his father and, what 
was far more important, could get the 
necessary cash. 

John had not expected his father at the 
boat to meet him, because he had written, 
telling the old man that he was coming 
home by train. So when Eed Tracy walked 
into the saloon and was told by his father ^s 
barkeeper that his father had gone to the 
train to meet him, he was not surprised, al- 
though he pretended to be. 

Sitting in the corner of the saloon were 
three or four friends, steady customers of 
the old man. They were drinking, and 
throwing dice, and they welcomed Red 
J ohn, who knew better than to fail in cor- 
diality toward them. He wore the cadet 
uniform for the simple reason that he had 
no other clothes, and at the invitation of his 
father's customers he seated himself at the 
table, ordered his beer and reeled off yarns 


DONALD Macdonald 


13 


of the Point. When his tired, breathless 
old dad appeared he found John the cen- 
ter of an admiring group, and so delighted 
was he at the gossoon that he easily ac- 
cepted John^s explanation as to how it hap- 
pened he came home by boat. 

Old man Tracy’s saloon, ‘‘The Sham- 
rock,” was just what it had been when it 
put up drinks for Congressman Donovan’s 
constituents two years gone by — not very 
large nor very pretentious, and depending 
upon the Saturday night trade and “growl- 
ers” for support; accordingly, it reaped a 
steady harvest from nearby tenements. 

John quickly robed himself in civilian 
best, and he found that his father’s patrons 
and relatives made rather an idol of the 
West Point boy, which was not disagree- 
able to a young fellow of John’s tempera- 
ment. There were times, many times, when 
he found himself bored, but it was, on the 
whole, better than he feared. Old man 
Tracy was not a good cook and he kept no 
servants, and there were many times when 
John longed for the “horse” and “wob- 
ble-wobble” of the West Point fare; but, 
possessing the digestion of an ostrich, he 
pulled through all right. 


CHAPTER II 


Old man Tracy of The Shamrock was a 
devoted father, but there was something in 
the conditions which he himself had 
created that he had not bargained for. He 
had not thought that any educational ad- 
vantage could make Red John look down 
upon his own father, but he knew that he 
was raising the boy to a position far above 
his own. He never dreamed that John 
would ever feel ashamed to turn to biiu 
and say to any one, “This is my father.” 
That possibly had never occurred to the old 
man. ^ For how could the old man ever feel 
anything but pride in his Mary’s boy? If 
all had gone wrong, if John had failed, or 
if he had been accused of everything dis- 
honorable, his father’s arms would have 
waited and longed for his boy just the 
same. Nothing could change his love, and 
how could success, bought by the sweat of 
his brow for his boy, kill the love that was 
all old Tracy lived for? 

14 


DONALD MaoDONALD 


15 


The first night at home for supper was a 
joyful time for the old man. At last he had 
his son, the officer to be, under his own roof. 
Leaving the table when the meal was done, 
he hurried up-stairs and brought down an 
old tintype of a pretty Irish girl. Handing 
it to John, who had never seen it, he said, 
‘‘Aye, lad, and who is that?” There was 
something about the pictured face John 
thought he recognized; it was not the pic- 
ture that he remembered, or recognized, 
but his own face — the same hair and eyes, 
and the lips full and smiling. He looked at 
his father in a puzzled way and old Tracy 
replied, “It is your mither, lad, twenty 
years ago in Dublin. She died when you 
were born and I promised that I would take 
her place and mine, and I have tried to,” 
and reaching out his toil-begrimed hands 
he partly laughed and partly cried as he 
said, “Put them there, lad, put them 
there!” Eed John was moved, and reach- 
ing his own white hands across the table he 
put them in his father’s hands and, looking 
at each other, they both laughed. John 
laughed because he felt a little ashamed of 
his emotion, and the old man, because he 


16 


DONALD Macdonald 


loved his boy so sincerely, and was so 
happy at having him with him once more. 

Mike, the bartender, washed the supper 
dishes, and while the two men smoked, P 
John broached his cherished plan for a 
trip. To his dismay he found his father 
bitterly opposed to it. ‘ ‘ Sure, ’ ’ said Tracy, 
‘ ‘ye^ll be going the world over in two years, 
and this is your only furlough. I will not 
lave you go, John,’’ and the old man knock- 
ed the ashes out of his pipe and went to 
tend the bar. 

Eed John sat by himself and sulked, and 
looked through the door at the saloon tribe 
that wandered in — the woman with the be- 
draggled gown and the shawl over her 
head with her growler”; the man who 
wants a drink and has no money to pay for 
it; the workingmen of the neighborhood for 
their five-cent drink of beer, and all the 
others that frequent such a saloon. John 
sat and sulked and smoked, and wondered 
how he could approach his father different- 
ly so as to get out of it all. He felt himself 
aggrieved. The old man’s love went for 
nothing with him; he thought only of his 
own career, and the burden of the illiterate 
old Irishman who was his father. Two or 


DONALD Macdonald 


17 


three times during Jolm^s sulk ‘^the old 
one’^ brought his closest friends into the 
^;.j^ing-room to see him, and quite late in the 
evening Mrs. Kelly — she that used to be 
Mary Tracy and was known to John as 
Aunt Mamie^ — ‘‘called in,’’ as she express- 
ed it, in honor of the cadet. Mrs. Kelly had 
two daughters of her own who accompanied 
her, and also a pretty little Irish girl, Kitty 
Sullivan, a child of Mrs. Kelly’s dearest 
friend. 

The girl’s mother had died and left her 
to Mrs. Kelly’s care, and she had taken the 
added responsibility of another daughter 
without a moment’s hesitation. “For 
sure,” said she, “mightn’t I be dyin’ an’ 
lave me own two to the cold wourld, and 
it is a girl that needs a mither’s care, and 
one more mouth is nothin’ at all to feed. 
The bit an’ the sup she’s welcome to!” 
And the good old priest who so cheerfully 
gave his life to his flock assured her she 
would be blest. And so Kitty moved her 
few belongings to the squatter’s cabin 
called in the neighborhood “Kelly’s 
Boost, ’ ’ because it stood far above the road 
and was reached by the most rickety of 
stairs. Kitty straightway became a mem- 


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DONALD Macdonald 


ber of the Kelly family, and made herself 
of use in many ways. And as Mrs. Kelly 
said, ^^She do be after havin’ the most ille- 
gant taste. She made the bonnet I’m 
wearin’, and there isn’t a thing she can’t 
turn her hands to. She’s fur goin’ to serv- 
ice, but it’s meself that wants her to get a 
mullinary shop, an’ if she ever do she’ll 
set the fashions fur New York, she’s that 
tasty.” 

And Kitty indeed was ‘"tasty,” being 
blest by nature with the complexion of a 
wild rose, the Irish blue eyes, and curly 
black hair, with the dainty figure of the girl 
of seventeen. Yes, Kitty was as pretty as 
a picture. She had good taste and showed 
it in the way she arranged her simple cot- 
ton gowns. Unconsciously she made the 
most of everything she had; just as the 
rose blooms with the aid of God’s fresh 
air and sunshine. Kitty lived and loved to 
live in the best meaning of the word. That 
she had very little in her life was some- 
thing that never occurred to Kitty. She 
never opened her little window in Kelly’s 
Roost in the morning and looked out upon 
the world that she didn’t feel a gladness 
that came from her heart, the gladness 


DONALD Macdonald i9 

which is really a prayer of thankfulness; 
but Kitty didn ’t know it or call it that. 

Mrs. Kelly’s daughters were younger, 
and if the mother noticed any difference be- 
tween them and Kitty the good woman dis- 
missed it with the thought, ‘‘Sure, it’s 
God’s will, an’ Kitty will be married long 
before my two girls are ready fur the 
beaux.” Mrs. Kelly had her eye on Bed 
John for Kitty, for cousins couldn’t marry 
in her church, and she wanted to see John 
settled. She knew of many escapades of 
the boy that his father had never heard of, 
and her one remedy for all failings of men 
like John was a good wife. So upon the 
occasion of Kitty’s first visit, Mrs. Kelly 
made her wear her best gown, and the re- 
sult was more than pleasing. A white leg- 
horn hat, trimmed with pink roses, was 
Kitty’s finishing touch, and Mrs. Kelly re- 
marked, ‘ ‘ Shure, there is nothing the mat- 
ter with yer looks at all.” And that was 
just the impression pretty Kitty Sullivan 
made upon Bed John. He closed the door 
opening into the saloon and laid himself 
out to be agreeable. He talked to his aunt 
and his cousins, but he looked at Kitty. 
The longer he looked the more he found 


20 


DONALD Macdonald 


to please him, and when ten o^clock came 
he was reconciled to his vacation. 

V/hen his aunt, so jolly, rosy, and fat, 
had laughed her fill at the West Point 
^^byes,’’ she took her leave, enjoining John 
to be in time for early mass to-morrow, 
for the early service was Father Hogan’s, 
and Father Hogan, she knew, would give 
his eyes to see John once more. John would 
not promise about early service. He had 
not attended mass for two years, and had 
resolved that the confessional days for him 
were over; for he looked with contempt 
upon the devout faith of his good old 
father. 


CHAPTER III 


Although Jolin failed to go to early 
morning mass, lie found time for Kelly’s 
Roost later in the day, and was very much 
disgusted to find that he was not the only 
man who went the Kelly way. Two or three 
other young men, beaux of the neighbor- 
hood, were there before him, and Kitty was 
enjoying the honors of being hostess, for 
John’s Aunt Mamie was away. The pres- 
ence of the other men made J ohn feel that 
lie was upon his mettle, for although he 
had no serious intentions in regard to pret- 
ty Kitty, he had made up his mind to show 
the home fellows that he could have his 
say. So John outstayed the other boys, 
and when he was alone with Kitty he made 
the best use of his time until his aunt’s re- 
turn. Kitty had been told before that she 
was pretty, but told in a different way. 
John was a masterful young man, and he 
intended to enjoy Kitty’s society in his 
own way. He made little headway upon 


22 


DONALD Macdonald 


this first visit, for Kitty was very shy, more 
so when alone than when his aunt was pres- 
ent, and John realized that he could not 
take Kitty’s heart by stoiTU, and that if he 
took it at all he must win it by degrees. 
When his aunt returned she was pleased 
to find John there, and added another story 
to her air-castle for Kitty’s welfare. 

From June to August is a short time, and 
yet it is ample time to win a heart as good 
and pure as Kitty’s, and so John found. 
He got into the way of going to church 
again, because Kitty was always there, and 
though he shunned the confessional, he 
made an outward show of the religion of 
his fathers, and this gave him weight with 
Kitty. A Catholic who really follows his 
religion cannot go far wrong, and Kitty 
felt safe with John, and gave him a confi- 
dence that he could not have won in any 
other way. She could not conceal from 
herself that she loved him dearly. At the 
mention of John’s name the wild-rose color 
that was natural to Kitty’s cheeks sutfused 
her face and turned, sometimes, to deepest 
crimson. And when John promised to call 
at a certain time, and was a moment late, 
her impatience was hard to conceal. For 


DONALD Macdonald 


23 


weeks she had worn his class ring, and he 
had enjoyed all the privileges of an en- 
gaged man. Kitty was a good, pare girl, 
a child in most matters, and her highest 
ambition was to be the honest wife of «John 
Tracy, to work for him and for his chil- 
dren, and to suffer any privation that his 
circumstances would impose upon her. 

Mrs. Kelly knew the condition of alfairs, 
and felt that the girl was safe in John’s 
care. She did not reckon with his lack 
of moral character, and with the am- 
bition that made him rotten to the core, 
and with the fact that, although he accepted 
every privilege of an engagement he did 
not consider himself bound, because he had 
not asked the formal question, ‘‘Will you 
be my wife?” 

As the days dragged themselves into 
weeks, and the time approached for John’s 
return to the Point, Kitty’s marriage to 
John became to her a dire necessity. To 
Mrs. Kelly she was John Tracy’s affianced 
wife; to Kitty herself she was John’s wife 
in all but the marriage ceremony. And 
who shall judge her? Who shall say be- 
cause she loved too well, and trusted too 
far, she was no longer a good woman? 


24 


DONALD Macdonald 


Driven to desperation, Kitty finally made 
a confidante of Mrs. Kelly. It was a rude 
awakening for the kindly plans, made all 
in good faith, for the child of her dead 
friend. Eemembering the many times she 
had made possible John’s seeing Kitty 
alone, Mrs. Kelly reproached herself, and 
felt she had failed to keep faith with her 
conscience, her priest, and her dead friend. 
How conld she ever face Susan in Paradise 
when the girl entrusted to her care, almost 
in the presence of her God, had gone astray^ 
and when the man responsible for that 
girl’s undoing was her own nephew? But 
matters could be righted, and the quicker 
the better. 

Mrs. Kelly left her own house and went 
to Tracy’s saloon. The old man was out, 
but John was there, and the scene between 
them was a stormy one. At first, Mrs. Kel- 
ly felt sure of winning. What was John, 
anyway, but a slip of a boy? He was her 
brother’s son, who was himself as good a 
man as ever stepped. She bandied no words 
with J ohn, but when she stated her demand 
that the wedding ceremony be performed 
at once, she had no idea that John would 
dare to say her nay. She was so shocked 


DONALD Macdonald 


25 


at liis curt refusal to right the girl he had 
wronged that she had to put her hand upon 
the table to steady herself. 

“ Your mother was an honest woman, 
an’ Kitty Sullivan was an honest girl, be- 
fore she met with the likes of you! You 
have got ter marry her. If yer don’t,” 
as an overpowering shot, “I’ll tell the 
priest I” 

Eed John laughed in her face. 

“Tell him,” he said. “What do I care 
for old man Hogan? He’s no superior offi- 
cer of mine. I won’t marry a woman who 
has been a servant girl, and if she’s in a 
bad fix it’s as much her fault as mine.” 

Mrs. Kelly was silent. She saw, when it 
was too late, John Tracy’s true character, 
his real nature. The things that she and 
her brother respected were as the dust upon 
which John walked. There was no appeal 
to him, and, realizing this, Mrs. Kelly 
turned and left the saloon. But she was 
not to be beaten. She hurried to Father 
Hogan and told him all — ^lier ambition for 
the daughter of her dead friend, her mis- 
take as to John’s character, the downfall 
of her hopes, and the plight of Kitty Sul- 
livan. She did not withhold Eed John’s 


26 


DONALD Macdonald 


words, ‘‘What do I care for Hogan T’ At 
the conclusion of her recital the good wom- 
an fell upon her knees and wept like a 
child. 

The priest was silent at first, but pres- 
ently said: 

“Where can I see Tracy’s son?” 

“He’s at home now, and his father is 
away for a day at Peekskill.” 

“Well, bring the girl to me.” And, ac- 
companied by Mrs. Kelly and Kitty, the 
Father sought John at The Shamrock. The 
priest entered quickly, followed by the two 
women, and there was no escape for John, 
for he was at home. It was not the habit 
of the good priest to mince matters with 
the members of his congregation, and he 
stated the case plainly. John repeated his 
refusal, and said that he could not marry 
Kitty for two years, because any cadet who 
married during the four years ’ course had 
to sutler dismissal. It was an impressive 
scene— the dimly lighted room, the two 
women, one humbled to the dust, the other 
filled with an indignation that prompted 
her to seize her nephew, strip him of his 
uniform, and tear him limb from limb ; the 
priest, gray-haired and solemn, and bear- 


DONALD Macdonald 27 

ing upon his stern face the plainly written 
determination to right the wrong or die in 
the attempt. Up to this time he had kept 
his temper and hidden his contempt, but 
when Red Tracy finished his feeble excuse 
for not making an honest wife of the poor 
girl, the old man, who had spent thirty 
years of his life in the vineyard of the 
Lord, gave vent to his indignation. 

‘‘The rules of God, John Tracy, stand 
with me before any army regulation. If 
you don't marry this girl to-night, to-mor- 
row morning I’ll see the commandant, and 
we’ll see if deceiving an honest girl isn’t 
worse than marrying her, in the eyes of a 
good soldier! You’ll get your dismissal 
all right, be sure of that. Your father is 
an honest man, who knows no disgrace ex- 
cept the tie that binds him to you. He has 
struggled and scraped and saved for fif- 
teen years to make you a gentleman. I am 
sorry for old Tracy to have worked so long 
and striven so hard in order to turn out a 
convict. For I will have you jailed just 
as sure as there is a sky above us, unless 
you marry this girl to-night! She won’t 
be seventeen until next March, and you are 
of age, and the law shall hold you. You 


28 


DONALD Macdonald 


no longer believe in God, so I won’t ap- 
peal to you in His name.” 

Eed John, when the Father began to 
speak, insolently turned his back, but when 
the priest finished he faced him with his 
head down. 

^H’m willing enough to marry her,” he 
said sullenly, ‘‘but if they get hold of it at 
the Point I’ll be dropped; and if my father 
knows of it he ’ll tell every one in the neigh- 
borhood.” 

“Well,” said Father Hogan, “I’ll per- 
form the marriage ceremony to-night.” 
And then with grim humor he added : “We 
will talk about the chances of the news get- 
ting out to-morrow.” 

Then Father Hogan turned from the sa- 
loon and made his way to the church, and 
there was nothing for John to do but fol- 
low. As they entered the priest’s house, 
Kitty whispered: “Father, I’d like to be 
married before the altar, if you think I’m 
fit to be.” The Father acquiesced, and led 
them from his house to the church. The 
church was closed, and wholly dark except 
for the taper that burned before the altar. 
Father Hogan brought a single candle, 
which he rested upon the altar rail, and 


DONALD Macdonald 


29 


commenced the marriage service. Poor 
Mrs. Kelly, upon entering the church, had 
fallen upon her knees, and gradually her 
tired body bent itself until her heels bore 
her weight. To her this affair was more 
like a wake than a wedding, and a sorry 
contrast to the brilliant scene that she 
had planned for poor Susan’s girl two 
years hence. Her motive had been an un- 
selfish one. She thought it would be a fine 
catch for Kitty, and a good wife for John, 
and if she considered herself at all, it was 
only that she might have the pleasure of 
saying, ^^My nephew, the Lieutenant”; and 
now this nephew was marrying the girl, 
but as Mrs. Kelly expressed it, ‘‘at the 
p’int av a gun.” 

The service that made Kitty an honest 
woman was a very short one, and J ohn left 
the church immediately. As Kitty waited 
in the hall the priest spoke a few words to 
kfrs. Kelly. Now Mrs. Kelly’s appearance 
was a strildng contrast to her usual placid 
self. In leaving her own house she had 
not waited for her bonnet, but had thrown 
a shawl over her head. She had made sev- 
eral trips to the priest’s house, to her own, 
to The Shamrock, and back again, in the 


30 


DONALD Macdonald 


rain, and she had run all the way. Her 
luxuriant hair was wholly down her back, 
her eyes were red from crying, and her 
expression was the most dejected. As the 
Father closed the door he said : 

‘^Now, Mary, iFs all right; you must not 
feel the fault is yours. You have done your 
best, and no woman can do more. And now 
there is something else. Where is your 
husband to-night T’ 

‘‘He’s got some heavy hauling to do with 
the teams, and he won’t be home till day- 
break. ’ ’ 

“Well, tell him Kitty’s story, but date it 
from the marriage to-night, and not from 
six weeks ago. It’s her secret, not yours, 
and as good Christians we must help her 
keep it,” and the kindly old man shook 
hands with both the distressed women and 
shut them out into the night. 


CHAPTEE IV 


Befobe Jolm’s return to West Point he 
had a long, penitent conversation with the 
priest, and the agreement reached was that, 
so far as possible, John’s marriage should 
not be talked about, and that he was to send 
the twenty-five dollars per month allowed 
him by his doting old father to his wife. 
The Government provides for the wants 
of its cadets, and John had no use for the 
money except to waste it in games of 
chance and in foolish expenditures. On the 
whole, though cursing his luck, he felt that 
matters might have been worse, and prom- 
ising the good priest to take up his churcli 
duties again, John packed his trunk and 
returned to West Point. He was heartily 
glad to get back to the furlough hop, and 
the breaking of camp next day, and all that 
went with it. There were many times dur- 
ing the following winter when he bemoaned 
his fate, but there were other times when 
the little scrap of good that remains in us 


32 


DONALD Macdonald 


all, no matter how bad we may be, came 
to the top, and John would sit down and 
write to poor Kitty such a kind letter that 
the roses would come back to her cheeks 
and life seemed worth living again. Then 
there were other times when he spent the 
twenty-five dollars, and then threw dice or 
played cards to win it back. Then it was 
that he kept a bottle of something stronger 
than hard cider up the chimney, and took a 
drink of it when he was out of humor. 

But a change came. It was before the 
Thanksgiving hop, and Kitty’s twenty-five 
dollars was all gone, and John was des- 
perate. It was hop night, but he had no 
heart for the dance, so he stayed in his 
room. Some time after the scraping of 
feet on the stairs had ceased, and John 
knew the cadet barracks were deserted, he 
sat trying to think his way out. He was 
afraid not to send the money to Kitty — 
the priest was a man of his word and he 
would have him dismissed. Impatiently 
pushing his chair back, John strode up and 
down the room, when suddenly he stopped 
and thought. Going to his roommate’s 
side of the room he opened his photograph 
album, and pressing his fingers on the face 


DONALD Macdonald 


33 


of a photograph he drew it out and dis- 
closed two twenty-dollar bills. He waited 
a moment, thinking^ and then quickly and 
carefully replaced the two bills. Closing 
the book, he left the room, and going into 
the hall, he entered the third room on his 
left, the room of his roommate’s most inti- 
mate friend. He repeated the album ma- 
neuver exactly as he had before, except 
that he tried several pictures before he 
found the right one, and once removing 
the money he did not return it, but left the 
room after thrusting it into his pocket. Go- 
ing to his own room, he addressed an en- 
velope to Kitty and enclosed the bills, 
wrapped in a piece of writing paper. This 
letter he mailed at once, and feeling well 
satisfied with his evening’s work he betook 
himself to bed and to the sleep that comes 
not from an easy conscience, but from a 
good digestion. 

From this first theft to others, some 
small, some greater, was a natural se- 
quence, until the thefts had increased to 
such an extent that the boys’ patience be- 
came exhausted, and many were the threats 
made against the unknown thief. 

Finally, suspicion was clearly directed 


34 


DONALD Macdonald 


by John himself to his own roommate, a 
member of one of Maryland’s most distin- 
guished families, a quiet, studious youth, 
with hardly a thought outside of his books, 
and with nothing in common with loud, ath- 
letic Eed John. 

The thefts continued to increase, and 
some of the cadets banded themselves to- 
gether in a vigilance committee, of which 
John was a member, to try and discover 
the thief. 

They followed the usual method of mark- 
ing several bills and stowing them away in 
ditferent rooms where the cadets were in 
the habit of keeping their money. Two of 
the bills disappeared and were never ac- 
counted for, but the third and last bill was 
found in Sheffield’s dictionary — and found, 
curiously enough, by Red John himself. 

Sheffield’s only intimate friend at the 
Point was Donald MacDonald, a Virginian 
by birth, but a Scotchman by descent. 

Brought up in the stern Presbyterian 
faith of his fathers, MacDonald had at an 
early age been made to know and follow 
his conscience. He was straight and tall, 
and sturdy of form, and was the only boy 
in the class who was Red John’s physical 


DONALD MaoDONALD 


35 


matcli. In complexien lie was neither light 
nor dark. His hair was brown, and his 
eyes, which were rather deep set, were of 
darkest gray. His color was bright, and 
came and went with every stir of emotion, 
Scotch Don, as he was called, stood well 
with every one, from the bugler’s cur dog 
to the commandant. 

Taking him altogether, he was a boy of 
rare promise, for his face bore the trac- 
ings of candor and truth and the stamp 
of mental worth. He had the courage al- 
ways of his convictions, and, rather slower 
than other boys of his age, he approached 
all conclusions cautiously, and then stood 
firm as the everlasting hills. 

Between MacDonald and Sheffield there 
existed a real affection. Of the same age, 
and from adjoining States, the friendship 
had commenced as children and grown 
stronger year by year. 

On the day of the finding of the bill, just 
as Tracy pulled the money from the leaves 
of the dictionary the door opened and in 
walked Scotch Don. Feeling the need of 
immediate action, Bed Tracy turned upon 
him like a lion at bay and accused Sheffield 


36 DONALD MacDONALD 

of the theft in language that I will not 
repeat. 

Don stood stunned at first, not seeming 
to grasp John^s meaning, and he neither 
moved nor spoke until Eed Tracy flaunted 
the money in his face. Then he understood, 
and with one bound he grasped Tracy’s 
throat. Forcing him back, step by step, 
he thrust him down upon his bunk, and as 
he shook him he muttered between his 
teeth, ^^You dirty Irish liar!” 

In briefer space than it takes to tell it, 
the room was crowded with cadets, all ex- 
cited, and all inclined to believe Eed 
Tracy’s accusation. 

Donald’s assertion that he had seen John 
pull the money from between the covers of 
Sheffield’s dictionary, and that he himself 
had brought the ^^dick” back one short half 
hour before, and that the money was not 
in the dictionary then, and that Sheffield 
had not been in the room since early morn- 
ing, carried no weight. The boys wanted 
to find the thief; they admired Eed John; 
he was big and strong, and bullied them 
without their knowing it. 

When the excitement was at its height 
Sheffield came in, and was informed in no 


DONALD Macdonald 


37 


kind terms of Ms classmates’ suspicions. 
Shrugging his shoulders, he said, signifi- 
cantly: that money was found in my 

dictionary, some one else put it there, 
not L” 

The call for dinner broke up the meeting, 
and the boys filed out. 

Sheffield maintained Ms brave front un- 
til alone with MacDonald. Then he threw 
himself down before his desk and, covering 
his face with his hands, cried as he had 
not cried since he was a child. And his 
one staunch friend remained with him, his 
protecting arm thrown about his shoulders. 


CHAPTER V 


The day after Sheffield had been accused 
of theft, while the boys were in the riding 
hall, the horse ridden by Don, a heavy, un- 
gainly brute, lost his footing and, falling, 
caught the boy’s right foot well under him. 
It would probably not have happened had 
not Don’s loss of food and sleep, in anxiety 
for his friend, made him slower of action 
than was usual with him. 

A badly turned ankle was the only result, 
and a tour in the hospital. Don’s enforced 
vacation proved a sorry time for Sheffield. 
Rudely shaken by the accusation of theft, 
he had only one friend, and bereft of him 
his plight was sad indeed. 

The third day of Don’s hospital tour 
found Sheffield studying alone. It was 
winter, and the outlook from the barracks 
was cheerless in the last degree. 

Sheffield had been called the mathemati- 
cal wonder by his instructor. Nothing could 
be found which he failed to solve, and he 
38 


DONALD MacDonald 


39 


loved his books. He was not a coward ; the 
boy simply lived in a world of his own, and 
he was stunned by the accusation of the 
men of his class. Boys can be the most 
cruel creatures in the world. They follow, 
usually, like a flock of sheep, even though 
they have the Devil as leader, and in hav- 
ing Red Tracy they had an able representa- 
tive of his majesty. 

Scotch Don being out of the way, John 
had the opportunity he longed for, and he 
made good use of it. Of Sheffield he had 
no fear, but of Don he had. Donald was 
more popular with the better element of 
his class, and he was born a gentleman. 
That was the rub. Tracy chose his time 
well. Don was out of the way, and select- 
ing eight of the men who were his boon 
companions, Red John went to Sheffield's 
room. They found the boy preparing for 
the next day’s recitation, and they ordered 
him to put up his books and begone from 
the Point forever. He refused, and they 
started to carry him bodily from the bar- 
racks. 

Don’s thoughts as he lay in the hospital 
were all of his friend, and finally he sent a 


40 DONALD MacDONALD 

note to the assistant surgeon that he would 
like to speak to him. The young doctor re- 
sponded promptly, and when he came, Don, 
so honest as a rule, found himself at a loss 
how to get a message to his friend without 
telling the doctor everything. At last he 
said: 

‘‘Doctor, Sheffield is down on his luck, 
and I am worried about him. Could one 
of the attendants go to the barracks and 
tell him I want him to come to meT’ 

The doctor laughed, and said; “Write 
your note, and I’ll leave it with him as I 
go to my tea.” 

As the doctor reached the stairs leading 
to Sheffield’s room he heard angry voices 
and the sound of a body rudely dragged 
across the floor. Mentally scoring the haz- 
ers, the doctor rushed up the stairs and 
found Sheffield in the hands of eight cadets. 
The boy’s face was bleeding, and that he 
had made his best resistance his clothes 
bore ample evidence. The doctor’s visit 
was unexpected, and the cadets stood in a 
confused mass. ‘ AVhat in the devil do you 
fellows mean ?’ ’ he demanded. ' ' How dare 
you treat a classmate in this manner! I’ll 
report every damn one of you! Get up. 


DONALD Macdonald 


41 


Sheffield/’ and the doctor assisted him. 
^ ‘ Get yourself in order and go down to the 
hospital to Scotch Don. He wants you. ’ ’ 

Eed Tracy and his men slunk away. The 
doctor waited for Sheffield, who soon joined 
him in clean linen, and together they took 
their way to the main walk, where they 
separated, the doctor to puzzle over the 
scrimmage he had just witnessed, and Shef- 
field to wonder sadly whether to tell Don 
his latest trouble or to keep it to himself. 
He need not have wasted thought on this; 
Don knew, after one glance at his friend’s 
face, that something was the matter, and 
had it out of him in five minutes, and the 
result was that bright and early the next 
morning Red Tracy received a challenge 
for a fight, and the class president delivered 
it. ^ ^ As soon as I can stand upon my feet, ’ ’ 
directed Don, and his orders were obeyed. 
Just two weeks from the day of Tracy’s 
raid upon Sheffield’s room Scotch Don 
walked to the barracks. 

Meantime, an order had been issued and 
Red Tracy’s roommate shipped from his 
room to Donald MacDonald’s, and Sheffield 
rested under the protection of his best 
friend. 


42 


DONALD MacDonald 


Fights at the Point are hard to ar- 
range, for the boys are closely watched. But 
in this case they chose the night of one 
of the mid-winter hops — a cold, snowy 
night, but, as they expressed it, ‘‘a dead 
safe one.’^ They determined to fight at 
Fort Putnam, and the twelve attending ca- 
dets made the journey up the hill somewhat 
in advance of the contestants and their sec- 
onds. 

Donald was fighting from principle, and 
because he knew Bed Tracy’s persecutions 
of his friend would never cease until he 
was well licked. Bed Tracy was fighting 
because he had to ; he had been loud in his 
denunciation of Sheffield to shield himself 
and could not afford to disregard Donald’s 
challenge. 

The challenge itself had caused a sensa- 
tion. Donald was noted for a temper as 
sunny as the sky in summer time. Who had 
ever seen Don angry? Only the cadets who 
were present when Tracy accused Sheffield 
could answer that. And who had ever seen 
him fight? No one. And who knew that 
he could fight or had ever fought? and the 
answer to that was, ‘^No one.” 

It was after eight o’clock when the boys 


DONALD Macdonald 


43 


assembled, and the two principals stood 
stripped to their waists, face to face, in the 
full glare of the lanterns carried by the 
other boys. The wind had risen and the 
fall of snow had changed to a fall of sleet. 
The combatants were very different in ap- 
pearance. Don, with tightly closed lips, 
faced Tracy, who wore a smile upon his 
face. Don was clean cut, with not an extra 
ounce of flesh in evidence ; Tracy was broad 
of chest and crimson of cheek, and tipped 
the scales with twenty pounds more than 
his adversary. 

The seconds gave the word and the boys 
got to work. A little sparring at first, and 
then Tracy delivered a right-hand blow. 
Don parried it, and then they clinched, 
and Tracy sought to bear his weight as well 
as Don’s down upon the injured ankle. Don 
knew, before a blow had been struck, what 
he intended to do, and was ready for him. 
They fought three rounds with neither the 
worse for wear, when one of Tracy’s sec- 
onds gave a derisive laugh and asked where 
Sheffield was, for Don had forbidden his 
friend to accompany him. That gave Don- 
ald the fire he needed, and he delivered a 
crushing blow over Bed Tracy’s heart that 


44 


DONALD Macdonald 


brought him dowu to the ground like a fell- 
ed ox, and the fight was Don^s. Both sec- 
onds bent over the prostrate Irishman, and 
finally, after a dose of brandy, he stood 
upon his feet. 

Don stood in silence until the opposing 
seconds said, ^‘Mr. MacDonald, the fight is 
yours.’’ 

Donald waited for a moment before 
speaking, and then he said ; 

‘ ‘ Grentlemen of the class of ’56, 1 am here 
as the friend of Frederick Sheffield. So con- 
vinced am I of his innocence in this matter, 
so sure am I that another committed the 
theft which has been laid at his door, that 
I would stake my life, and feel sure of win- 
ning. I have known him all my life, and 
the man who hits him hits me. If there is 
any man who wants to pick the gauntlet 
up, he Imows where to find Donald Mac- 
Donald.” And disregarding the applause 
from the few attending boys, Don threw 
on his clothes and went his way back to the 
barracks. 


CHAPTER VI 


If there is any way to increase the popu- 
larity of a boy of nineteen years or there- 
abouts, I would say let him come olff victor 
in a fight — and so it was with Don. The 
news spread before an hour had passed, 
and Don’s entire class, and members of oth- 
er classes, had called at his room to shake 
his hand; and no one dared to shake the 
hand of Donald and forget the hand of 
Sheffield. 

If there was any difference of feeling 
toward him, Sheffield, buried in his books, 
never felt it. Engrossed with his mathe- 
matical problems, in his dream of study, 
with the strong arm of his friend to defend 
him, Sheffield was safe. 

Time passed rapidly, and before the boys 
realized its passage the men went into camp 
for the last time. First classmen’s camp- 
how much it means! All the men of the 
first class are comparatively safe by this 
time, and begin to feel their freedom. 

46 


46 


DONALD Macdonald 


We now have time to speak of Don^s ro- 
mance, a serious affair to him, and one that 
had been going on since his furlough sum- 
mer. The girl, a Louisianian by birth, was 
what we call a Creole — small of figure, and 
possessed of a thousand fascinations to the 
unworldly mind of an unsophisticated boy 
like Don. Mademoiselle Aimee Lafitte had 
made the best of that summer’s vacation 
and won a heart well worth the winning. 

There was very little of the flirt in Don, 
he was always in earnest about everything. 
When he met Miss Lafitte he felt that he 
had met his fate, and he had accepted it as 
such. He had engaged himself to her and 
had asked his father’s approval. The affair 
had caused a serious cloud in the happiness 
of the MacDonald family, for the chosen 
one was a Creole, a Catholic, and came of 
a family of Latin blood. Mr. MacDonald 
was a man of few words, and that was a 
fortunate thing for Don’s feelings the day 
he introduced his intended bride. Mr. Mac- 
Donald shook the girl’s hand, and laying 
his hand upon Donald’s shoulder he merely 
said, ^‘May time bring wisdom, my son, to 
both of you.” There was nothing that 


DONALD Macdonald 47 

could be objected to in this, and Miss La- 
fitte was not offended. 

When she visited West Point, Don’s 
sweetheart was accompanied, as chaperone, 
by her little Creole mother, a woman swar- 
thy of visage, rotund of figure, and with 
one great aim, to marry her daughter off 
as quickly as possible. This, I think, is the 
one ambition of all Creole mothers. Mrs. 
Lafitte did not in the least understand 
Scotch Don. He was too dignified, too 
''cold,” she called it, for he never pounded 
his chest and talked about his "pashion.” 
And when she talked too plainly of his 
children yet to be born, he was greatly em- 
barrassed. She considered him too settled. 
But Aimee was in "loff,” as she expressed 
it, and he at least was a man, a support, a 
somebody, and among their friends their 
engagement was announced. After all, the 
little Creole argued, it was much better to 
be an army officer than to be a clerk on 
twenty-five dollars a month and have to 
live at home. Madame understood that Mr. 
MacDonald, as she always called him, 
would have a house, rent free, and one hun- 
dred dollars a month. He was fairly well 
to do, and her consent was easily won. 


48 


DONALD Macdonald 


Donald’s aifection for Aimee was all 
very real and very beautiful and, unlike 
so many other passions of the tender sort, 
it was very unselfish. He wanted her to 
come to the Point because he wished to car- 
ry the memory of her presence with him 
always at the first classmen’s camp, and 
Don was willing to share the pleasure of 
her company with the men who were his 
friends. There are many cases at the Point 
where the atfection is less real than it was 
with Donald, where the men demand every 
moment and every thought of the fair one 
of their hearts. But this was not so with 
MacDonald, and this is the reason why Pe- 
tite Aimee, as she came to be called among 
the cadets, met and danced with Eed Tracy, 
Donald’s foe, and came to be friends with 
him. It was at a dance. Donald, anxious 
to add to her enjoyment, begged her to 
dance the hop with one of his friends. We 
who have attended cadet hops know that 
when our card is handed to us it is full. 
Every dance is taken. The cadet who held 
the tenth dance on Aimee ’s card was sum- 
moned to his father’s death-bed and left 
the Point on three days’ leave. Then the 
cadet who claimed his closest friendship 


DONALD Macdonald 


49 


went about among his classmates until he 
had engaged, or disposed of, every dance 
on his friend’s card. 

When Red Tracy presented himself to 
Miss Lahtte as the holder of the tenth dance 
there was nothing for her to do but to 
dance with him. To do Red Tracy justice, 
he would rather have run away than to 
dance with a girl that all the corps knew 
was Donald MacDonald’s sweetheart; but 
when his friend said, ‘‘Let me put your 
name down for the tenth dance, Winston 
has gone to his father,” John had said all 
right, and never bothered about who it was 
until just before the dance commenced. 
Donald had kept the story of the quarrel 
from Aimee. What was the use of telling 
a girl about a fight, and besides, he wanted 
her to like Sheffield. Why should he enter 
into the gossip of the Point when he had 
two years’ pleasant happenings to talk 
about ? When Red J ohn presented himself 
for the dance, MacDonald was not there; 
but afterward he demanded an explanation 
from the man who had substituted Tracy’s 
name for Winston’s, and he received one 
that was satisfactory. 

To MacDonald, Tracy was disgusting, for 


50 


DONALD Macdonald 


he showed his dissipation in his manner and 
his conversation. Now Donald MacDonald 
was of stern Scotch descent, while his 
sweetheart, Aimee Lafitte, was of Latin 
origin. What repelled Donald, attracted 
her; and Bed John held for Aimee a fas- 
cination that she could not explain. And 
Petite Aimee had for John Tracy the same 
attraction. John let her see how charming 
he found her, and made her a thousand 
graceful compliments, such as Don, born 
without the touch of the Blarney stone 
upon his tongue, would never have thought 
of; and when he found she readily ac- 
cepted them, Eed Tracy threw caution 
to the winds. The one thought that 
Donald ^s sweetheart was not indiffer- 
ent to him was enough. Of course, he was 
in fun at first, but ‘'it is ill playing with 
edged tools.’’ John Tracy was nothing if 
not impressionable, and there was a healthy 
check in his meetings with Petite Aimee 
that had been wanting in his last affair of 
the heart, and that was the ever-present 
chaperone. But John used this stumbling 
block to further his own purpose, and it 
was into the mother’s willing ears that he 
poured the story of his affluence. His 


DONALD Macdonald 


51 


father, according to John, was a man of 
means, and he told a thousand other lies 
such as the poor old ‘^Shamrock’’ could 
never carry. Mrs. Lafitte may be forgiven 
for her eye to the main chance. We who 
have lived in New Orleans recall much in 
the life of the Creole quarter of the town 
that makes us pardon worldliness. 

For years her little Creole husband had 
kept a small medal and idol shop opposite 
the Cathedral, opening from Jackson 
Square, and Mrs. Lafitte remembered many 
days when the crawfish gumbo was so called 
from courtesy alone. 


CHAPTER VII 

Aimee L.vfitte was vapid yet ambitious, 
and went easily from one love affair to 
another. It is doubtful, however, if the 
girl, unless goaded by her mother, would 
have had the courage to face MacDonald’s 
honest eyes with the truth that she no long- 
er loved him, and that she did love Red 
John. But she finally braced herself for 
the confession, and one afternoon, when she 
had an engagement to walk with Don, her 
mother made her promise not to put off 
telling him any longer. 

The afternoon was warm and sultry. 
Flirtation walk was almost deserted. Aimee 
and Donald stood where they could look 
well up the Hudson and catch the slightest 
breeze astir. 

The girl was dressed in a buttercup-col- 
ored muslin, and the ox-eyed daisies in her 
hat mingled with the black velvet bow that 
held her black, glossy hair. The heat of 

52 


DONALD Macdonald 


53 


the day gave her lips and cheeks an unusual 
color, and Aimee’s heart beat in great 
throbs, for she dreaded the scene that would 
part her forever from MacDonald. He was 
so honest, so good — ^but then, so different 
from Red John. 

Two of Donald ^s friends had come to him 
with the information that Tracy had made 
the most of that tenth dance, but Donald 
had scorned to mention the matter to 
Aimee. As they looked for a cool spot, 
Aimee decided to have it over then and 
there, and turning impulsively to Don she 
said, ‘ ‘ I have something to say to you, ’ ^ and 
then, without waiting for him to speak, she 
stumbled on: do not love you any 

longer. We are not suited at all, and I go 
to my home to-morrow.’^ 

If Don had been struck in the face, he 
could hardly have been more shocked, but 
he did manage to stammer: 

^^WhjV^ 

‘^Because I cannot desert my religion; 
you are a Protestant, I am a Catholic. I 
wish my children to be Catholics, and — I 
love one Catholic man in — in your place.’’ 

Could anything be more ridiculous ? Even 
in the heat of his indignation and distress, 


54 


DONALD Macdonald 


ttie absurdity of it struck Don, and be could 
not help laughing. 

This was enough. In a moment Aimee^s 
Latin nature asserted itself, and she 
changed from a pleasant little dream of 
beauty to a disheveled little demon. She 
had never shown her temper to Don before, 
and he stood like one stunned. 

No man objects to spirit, but it is the 
feline nature in the hearts of so many wom- 
en that repels the love of strong and hon- 
est men, and it was this element of her 
nature that Aimee Lafitte now gave full 
sway. In her tirade she spoke of Eed 
Tracy as her ‘'idol,'' her “affinity," and 
such absurd terms. 

Donald stood with his forage cap drawn 
down well over his eyes, looking up the 
Hudson. That he had lost the girl of his 
heart was as nothing to him compared to 
the horrible fact that she admitted her in- 
tended marriage to Eed John. 

What was his grief compared to the aw- 
ful fate of any woman who married John 
Tracy ? 

“I know," the high treble continued in 
its flow of broken English, “I know that 
you do not like Mr. Tracy; that you have 


DONALD Macdonald 


55 


lick him in a fight ; but, ’ ’ with a shrug of 
the shoulders, ‘‘what do I care for that!’’ 

As she spoke she drew from her finger 
Donald’s engagement ring, one of the old- 
fashioned cluster diamond rings that our 
grandmothers wore, a ring that had come 
to Donald from his mother. “I give you 
back your ring. ’ ’ 

Don took the little gold circle, and hold- 
ing fast the hand that gave it to him, he 
said : “I am not angry, although you seem 
to be. I am willing to have you break our 
engagement, but there is one thing I wish 
to say. If you or yours ever need my ser- 
vices you shall have them ; but you will for- 
give me when I say that I am sorry for any 
girl who loves John Tracy or depends upon 
his honesty.” 

Aimee was glad to have the interview 
over, but she was a little disappointed. A 
greater ‘ ‘ scene ’ ’ would have been more ac- 
ceptable to her, a little chest thumping, or 
hair pulling would have suited her better. 
But it was over, and that was a relief, and 
she allowed Donald to take her back to her 
mother. 

Don returned to barracks to spend the 
longest afternoon he had ever known. He 


56 


DONALD Macdonald 


announced the breaking of his engagement 
to Sheffield, and wrote letters home telling 
of it, and went to bed at night quite worn 
out with the effort not to make a baby of 
himself about a woman. 

During the following winter the war 
wave that was soon to rise and engulf our 
country made itself felt at West Point. 

Many of the Southern boys received their 
weekly papers, and the talk in barracks at 
times was war-like enough, and it was not 
lessened any by the resignation of several 
of the officers who went South to join their 
States. Donald and Sheffield felt the wel- 
fare of the country came first, and they 
stated their intention to remain loyal to the 
flag. 

President Lincoln was inaugurated in 
March, 1861, and shortly after he issued an 
order that MacDonald’s class should be 
graduated in May instead of June. The 
cadets knew that this meant war, and they 
prepared themselves accordingly. 

To an old soldier, war is a thing of ter- 
ror ; to the boy with the untried sword and 
spotless uniform it is the opportunity to 
reap great laurels. They forget that the 
hard-fought-for crown is too often the 


DONALD Macdonald 


57 


award of deatli. The cadets were graduated 
for war and to a man they were glad of it; 
and when the Secretary of War called the 
first name on the roll the man who stood 
first, Frederick Sheffield, walked up to take 
the diploma. 

Both Donald MacDonald and Sheffield 
chose the artillery, so as to serve together, 
and in less than two weeks after they laid 
aside the cadet gray they marched out of 
Washington to war against men who wore 
the same old color. 

The army blue was strange at first to 
Donald and to Sheffield, but whenever 
Sheffield said so, Donald would reply, 
‘‘Look at the flag when you feel like that. 
I could cut out my heart more easily than 
cut out a single star that rests on that old 
field!’’ 

But in spite of all this loyalty, it was a 
distressing time in many ways, even for 
boys so bravely braced for war. 

As the troops swept down the streets of 
Washington a halt of a few moments was 
ordered, and as Don rested on the curb- 
stone three gray-coated Confederates hail- 
ed him. Turning, Don faced three class- 


58 DONALD MacDONALD 

mates on their way to join the Confederate 
forces. 

‘‘Don/’ said one, “I hope you’ll fall into 
my hands. I ’ll treat yon well, old boy ; give 
you chicken instead of ‘horse,’ ” and the 
boys all laughed. As they turned to go, 
McCafferty, the man who had spoken, turn- 
ed back, and threw his arms impulsively 
about Don’s shoulders, and as he did so 
he whispered, “Old chap, Tracy married 
Petite Aimee yesterday in Baltimore, and 
she has gone back to New Orleans to wait 
until the war is over. ’ ’ 

“We’ll whip you fellows in a year!” call- 
ed out another of the trio. “Good-by till 
then.” 

The band struck up ‘ ‘ The Girl I Left Be- 
hind Me,” and Don, feeling as if he wore a 
knife in his heart, drew his sword, gave the 
word of command and stepped out before 
his men, feeling that, so far as he was con- 
cerned, all joy in life was over. Petite 
Aimee married to Eed John! What hope 
was there for her? Pretty, fairy-like 
Aimee ! A great wave of tenderness swept 
over Donald; there was no envy or jeal- 
ousy in his heart, no resentment against 
Eed J ohn, nothing but pity most profound. 


CHAPTER Vin 

The men wlio stand behind the guns are 
rare good judges of raw material and Don 
was at once approved of by his men. 
‘‘Shure/’ said a weather-beaten old pri- 
vate, who had served in the war with Mex- 
ico, ‘Hhe new lieutenant is a well-built 
young chap, as handsome as a girl and full 
of spunk I bet. He’s looking down these last 
few days, not for the popgun business we 
are going to, but most probably about his 
sweetheart. It’s myself that left my twen- 
ty-third one yesterday. If he has got the 
making of a soldier in him he’ll never 
bother long about the women. There’s al- 
ways a plenty more. ’ ’ 

Whether Paddy’s estimation was correct 
or not, Don had no time to think of Petite 
Aimee, for the troops expected to go into 
action the next day, and not many miles 
away the Confederates were camping, pre- 
paring to give the Yankee forces the first 
59 


60 


DONALD Macdonald 


throwdown of the war. The men in both 
camps were light-hearted and confident, the 
camp fires burned brightly, and orderlies 
hurried from the generaPs tent with last 
instructions. Several times during the 
evening small commands joined the greater 
one, and when taps sounded the men lay 
down, wrapped in their blankets, both sides 
sure of victory for to-morrow. 

Early in the morning the men of the 
Union broke camp and marched with con- 
fidence to meet their foes. 

Out from Centerville, before the village 
was astir, across the fields, past the church, 
they marched. Then the order to halt is 
given. And in plain sight, gleaming in the 
sunshine, are the Confederates, and 
through the glass the colors can be seen, 
furling and unfurling about the staff. 

The Yankees yell^ and are answered by 
lungs as strong. 

A command is given. 

There is a clanking of iron and the troops 
move out to protect the flanks. 

The bugle blows the call ‘'Charge!'’ 
Another bugle call, and the blue soldiers 
sweep out to meet the men in gray. Like 
gray devils burst forth from hell, over 


DONALD Macdonald ei 

their dead and wounded come the gray sol- 
diers, on, on, on! 

Early in the action Donald had been 
given command of a section. 

Twice the gunner of one piece had been 
shot down, until finally, as a feeling of de- 
feat began to creep over the men, Don took 
the position at one of the pieces himself. 
Dirty, begrimed, breathless, he loaded and 
fired in rapid succession, and whether by 
marksmanship or luck his gun swept out of 
the saddle one of the Confederate field offi- 
cers. 

Sheffield had been appointed aide-de- 
camp to the general in command, and as the 
order to retreat was given he was sent with 
a message to MacDonald to cease firing and 
retreat. As he rode up and delivered his 
message one of the soldiers under Don was 
wounded. Sheffield dismounted and urged 
Donald to leave the field. Donald, unmind- 
ful of himself, stooped to lift the head of the 
dying man. As he did so a young Confed- 
erate officer, seated upon the same horse 
whose rider had been killed by Donald, rode 
savagely up and ordered them both to sur- 
render. Donald refused and invited the 
rebel to come and take them. The Confed- 


62 


DONALD Macdonald 


erate, without a moment’s hesitation, lifted 
his pistol and fired, but not before Sheffield 
had seen his friend’s danger and thrown 
himself before MacDonald in time to re- 
ceive the bullet through his left shoulder, 
low enough to pierce the heart. 

Donald, horrified, threw his arms about 
Sheffield. But with a burst of blood from 
his lips and a half-articulate sound Fred- 
erick Sheffield paid with his life the debt 
he owed Donald MacDonald. 

Don, beside himself at his friend’s death, 
lifted the light body of the boy, and almost 
without help carried him from the field, 
sometimes receiving assistance from strag- 
glers, for the retreat had now become one 
of great disorder; sometimes stopping to 
vainly listen to the heart that had ceased 
to beat. Lovingly, Donald carried Shef- 
field’s body into Centerville. That he had 
been under fire almost all the time weighed 
little with MacDonald. In face of the great 
sorrow of his friend’s death he was oblivi- 
ous to every other sensation, even to that 
great and over-powering one of defeat, so 
dreadful to the heart of a soldier. 

The war was a serious cloud to Madame 
Lafitte, but Red John, who at first had no 


DONALD Macdonald 


63 


thought of committing bigamy, felt the war 
would be a relief from a very dangerous 
predicament. 

After John^s graduation, Father Hogan 
had forced him to acknowledge Kitty to his 
father, but being in the field was ample ex- 
cuse for not taking his wife with him, and 
in time he hoped, in spite of his love for 
Aimee, to be able to tell her the truth. But 
John Tracy did not take into consideration 
the determination of old Mrs. Lafitte. When 
he reached Baltimore, under orders for the 
field, he was met by Mrs. Lafitte and Aimee, 
one determined, the other tearful. Madame 
Lafitte took the matter of the hasty mar- 
riage as a matter of course, under the cir- 
cumstances, and before Bed John knew 
where he was, he was married to Aimee La- 
fitte. 

The ceremony was performed in a little 
Catholic church in Baltimore and John 
was attended by two classmates. The mar- 
riage was not published, and John’s class- 
mates. were still in ignorance of that first 
marriage. And as the Baltimore papers 
were never taken at The Shamrock, he was 
safe so far. 

John was too great a coward and too 


64 


DONALD Macdonald 


much in love with Aimee to tell her the 
truth, and many were his protestations of 
devotion when he put her aboard the train 
for New Orleans. Poor Aimee returned to 
her home and took up her abode in her 
father ^s little medal and idol shop as of old. 
Her distress was real and deep. To feel 
that Red John was in danger gave her 
much sorrow and Aimee spent most of her 
time before the Cathedral altar, burning 
many candles for the safety of her loved 
one. Aimee ^s position in the very center of 
rebeldom was anything but pleasant, and 
being the wife of a Yankee officer many 
were the jibes she was forced to endure. 

It was possible, she found, for some of 
her friends to buy from her a sacred medal 
to be worn in order to obtain the aid of 
some saint, and to cut her with some harsh 
and cruel speech as she handed the package 
over the counter, for she helped her father 
in the little shop as she had always done. 

Aimee bore these taunts and insults far 
more bravely than her mother, who, on 
hearing them, would dash out into the shop 
and rudely berate the customer. 

And so the long, trying summer wore 
away, and Aimee waited for Red John. 


CHAPTER IX 


Now WE go to Kentucky, to the old sleepy 
village of Bardstown. On the outskirts of 
the town stands the fine old Wicklitfe home- 
stead. A spacious porch surrounds the 
house; a wide lawn slopes a bit in front, 
and a double row of locust trees make shade 
for the fine avenue, their perfume filling 
the hot sununer air. The petals of the 
flowers have showered down until the 
gravel walk looks as though covered with 
fine shells. 

On the back porch, in the bright sunlight, 
with uplifted hand to shade her eyes there 
stands a typical Kentucky girl, tall, hand- 
some, and with eyes so dark a blue that 
they seem even in the bright light to be al- 
most black. The girl shades her eyes and 
gazes far down in the lot. She hears chil- 
dren’s voices, and suddenly there is a cry 
of ^‘Sis Fanny! Sis Fanny!” The girl 
takes a step forward, stops an instant, and 
suddenly at the top of the knoll that sepa- 


66 


DONALD MaoDONALD 


rates the lower part of the yard she sees a 
man in Yankee uniform. He turns toward 
the house, and as he does the girl exclaims, 
God!’^ She does not linger. Down 
the steps, down the walk she hurries; the 
gate hangs a bit heavy on its hinges for a 
hurried hand, and she vaults over it, makes 
a quick run of one hundred yards, and 
brings up on the top of the knoll. 

At the foot of the hill are several chil- 
dren and three negro soldiers. The chil- 
dren are huddled together and every now 
and then lift up their voices and cry for 
‘‘Sis Fanny.’’ 

The soldiers, much to the distress of the 
children, are amusing themselves by shoot- 
ing at some pigs in a pen at the foot of the 
knoll. In a few steps the girl walks up to 
the man in the uniform of a corporal, who 
wears a red necktie, and asks him what he 
means. The negro, who is of the worthless 
type so well known during the war and 
since, regards her impertinently. 

“It’s none of your damn business!” he 
replies. The girl steps back from the lifted 
hand of the negro brute. 

“These pigs are ours,” she asserts. “I 
am the niece of a Federal colonel, now in 


DONALD Macdonald 67 

Bardstown, and before I am through with 
you I shall make you regret this day’s im- 
pertinence!” and turning quickly and pick- 
ing up the smallest child in her arms, and 
followed by the other children, she makes 
her way back to the house. 

She is met at the gate by her mother, on 
whom the first years of the war have left 
their mark. 

Mrs. Wicklitfe is not alone, for standing 
by her side is one of the few faithful ser- 
vants left upon her place. As the children 
approach her she says to the girl : 

^ ‘ What now, my daughter 1 More nigger 
soldiers I ’ ’ 

'M am going into town to find Uncle 
J ohn. ’ ’ 

‘‘Have they shot the pigs?” 

“Those pigs with Black Bob are all we 
have left.” 

Then the small boy speaks up with some 
contempt : ‘ ‘ They can ’t shoot, ma, any more 
than a jack rabbit. They never touched the 
pigs. They were pretending to shoot a knot- 
hole in the pen. ’ ’ 

The girl mounted the steps wearily. She 
knew that she must take a long, dusty walk 
to town. Handsome Black Bob was in 


68 DONALD MacDONALD 

hiding, the only horse left on the place. She 
dared not ride him, for to do so might mean 
his loss forever. 

Slowly, so indignant she dared not trust 
her voice to speak to her mother, Fanny 
Wickliffe went to her room, rearranged her 
hair, and, taking her hat in her hand, made 
her way down the locust avenue. She had 
not gone far when her mother came hastily 
out of the house. 

‘‘Daughter,^’ she said, imploringly, ‘^do 
not go ! ’ ’ 

‘‘I am going into Bardstown, mother, to 
find Uncle John.’^ 

‘ ‘ What good, my child, will it do T ’ 

'‘We shall see,’’ the girl replied. 

' ' But I may need you. ’ ’ 

"Just at present, mother, there is no 
danger of anything except from these 
negro soldiers. If I can get protection from 
them now, in the future they will let us 
alone. Now do be sensible and let me go.” 
The girl’s voice broke, and turning hastily 
to keep her mother from seeing the tell-tale 
tears she resumed her walk down the 
avenue. 

The Wickliffe family, one of the first in 
Kentucky, was greatly impoverished by the 


DONALD Macdonald 


69 


war. At the husband’s death, several years 
before, Mrs. Wicklitfe had been left in more 
than comfortable circumstances, but a few 
short months had made sad changes. In 
one night eighty thousand dollars ’ worth of 
cotton had gone up in flames, and as the old 
homestead lay in the path of both armies, 
they were robbed by friends and foes alike. 
Mrs. Wickliffe’s sons and brother were in 
the rebel army, but her husband’s remain- 
ing brother was a colonel in a Federal regi- 
ment, and it was to him Fanny Wickliffe 
intended to go. Mrs. Wickliffe, who had 
depended entirely upon her husband, had 
now transferred her helplessness to the 
shoulders of her eldest daughter. The girl, 
who resembled her father’s people, and 
stood head and shoulders above her little 
mother, was ready at all times to assume, as 
far as possible, a man’s position in the 
household. Many a night when Mrs. Wick- 
liffe slept comfortably in her bed, Fanny 
Wickliffe sat at the window overlooking the 
locust avenue, with a gun resting on her 
knees, wearily keeping watch. Her great- 
est dread was the negro soldier. 

A recruiting station had been opened in 
Bard st own, and all worthless negroes were 


70 


DONALD MaoDONALD 


thankfully received by the Federal govern- 
ment. In their own estimation, these col- 
ored gentlemen served their country best 
by immediately insulting the wife or daugh- 
ter of some Confederate officer, and Fran- 
ces Wickliife had made up her mind that 
something must be done and she was the 
one left to do it. 

Along the road which led to the town 
distressing evidences of the war were 
everywhere to be seen, and as the girl made 
her way under a sweltering sun her heart 
weighed heavy as lead, and, indeed, the con- 
ditions she was facing were enough to cause 
terror to the bravest heart. 

As Fanny reached the outskirts of the 
town she stopped a moment and wiped the 
perspiration from her face. Finding a seat 
somewhat shaded from the sun she took off 
her hat and fanned herself with it. As she 
rested there, three persons came into view 
from a quick turn in the road. When they 
drew near the girl smiled, and the others 
exclaimed : 

‘AVhy! Fanny Wicklitfe, you here, and 
walked two whole miles! Mercy, child, 
come home and let me get you something to 
cool you off. ’ ’ 


DONALD MacDonald 


71 


Can’t give her a glass of milk, can you, 
ma?” and a young man of Fanny’s age 
laughed. The woman’s face grew serious. 
‘‘No, indeedy, we can’t! Nigger soldiers 
shot our cow this morning before I could 
get her in out of the lot. I heard them at 
the dairy and just put on my skirt over my 
gown and ran in my bare feet; and Jezebel 
— ^you remember that bad nigger we sold to 
old man Tompkins three years ago! Well, 
he is a soldier now — just popped his bullets 
around me until I thought he certainly 
would kill me; and poor old Mooley, he’s 
killed her dead.” 

The girl’s lips tightened; weary anxiety 
tugged at her heart for Bob. “They may 
find him, and if they do he will probably 
suffer the same fate,” she thought. Then 
she got up and straightened her hair. 

“I cannot stop, Mrs. Ware,” she said. 
“I have come into town on business for 
mother. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘Well, stop on your way home then. It ’s 
a long walk on this warm day, ’ ’ and leaving 
the girl to go on about her affairs they 
passed out of sight. 


CHAPTEE X 


Fanny Wickliffe wasted no more time. 
Jumping to her feet she fairly ran to the 
headquarters of Colonel Wickliffe. The 
Federals, after their usual manner, had 
taken one of the handsomest houses in town 
for their accommodation, and on the wide 
veranda sat two young officers. Fanny 
mounted the steps, and turning to them 
asked to see Colonel Wickliffe. They both 
rose, and one of them went to find him, 
while the other stood in embarrassed 
silence. Colonel John Wickliffe was just 
entering the parlor, where he intended to 
sit in some important court-martial cases. 
When the messenger reached him, excusing 
himself to the other members of the court, 
Wickliffe stepped out upon the porch and 
held out both hands to his favorite niece. 
The girl was oppressed with the sense of 
her many responsibilities, and her face 
wore an expression it hurt her uncle to see. 
He knew well the condition of his broth- 


DONALD Macdonald 


73 


er’s family, and had done all in his 
power to help them, but his official duties, 
coupled with the distance of the place from 
town, often made it impossible to help them 
as he would like to. Drawing his niece to 
one side he heard the reason of the trip to 
town. The Colonel was not surprised. He 
had opposed, with many of the other offi- 
cers, the enlisting of the negro of bad char- 
acter, but all to no purpose. He tried to 
persuade the girl to wait until the after- 
noon before going to the provost officer to 
demand punishment for the negro corporal, 
but Frances insisted that she could not wait 
one moment; that the mother needed her, 
and she must return to Wickland. The Col- 
onel was at his wits ’ end ; the court must go 
on; he would not be free until afternoon 
and the girl must not go to the provost 
alone. Suddenly an idea occurred to him, 
and rising he called to one of the young 
men still standing at the other end of the 
porch. 

^ ^ Captain MacDonald, step here. ’ ’ 

The junior officer did so very quickly. 

‘^My niece, Miss Wicklilfe, Capt. Mac- 
Donald. She has been grossly insulted by a 
negro corporal, who, in company with two 


74 


DONALD Macdonald 


otlier negroes, has been trespassing on my 
brother’s place just out of town. I wish 
this negro punished. I cannot adjourn the 
court until this afternoon. Go with my 
niece, if you please, and see that she is 
courteously treated. She will have to state 
her case to the provost officer and, if neces- 
sary, identify the man. Please bring her 
back here or see her home. I cannot have 
her going about without protection in times 
like these.” 

The Colonel finished his directions, bow- 
ed to his niece, and rejoined his brother of- 
ficers in the court-room. 

MacDonald was a trifle thinner and 
browner than when he won his first brevet 
at the battle of Bull Run. He had seen good 
service, but at heart he was just the same 
bashful boy he was at West Point. 

Turning to Miss Wickliffie, Donald Mac- 
Donald lifted his forage cap as if awaiting 
her instructions. 

Fanny Wickliffe hardly glanced at the 
young man’s face, for her mind was filled 
with the hope of the capture and possible 
punishment of the negro. The safety of 
the home, the children — everything de- 
pended upon the success of her mission. 


DONALD Macdonald 


75 


She bowed in acknowledgment of the in- 
troduction and quickly led the way to the 
negro recruiting office. Her business-like 
manner put MacDonald entirely at his ease. 
She was so different from Aimee; there 
was no casting down of the eyes here, noth- 
ing coquettish in the manner of Frances 
Wickliffe. Merely glancing at MacDonald, 
she said : 

‘^The sooner we can attend to this 
matter. Captain MacDonald, the better.^’ 

On the street she acquainted him briefly 
with her grievances, of the dairy where 
they found yesterday morning all the 
crocks broken and the milk poured upon the 
ground ; of the dog, dear old faithful Shep, 
found one day last week with his throat 
cut, and of two cows missing, and a score 
or more offenses. As they neared the re- 
cruiting office several negroes passed 
them. Fanny regarded them with interest, 
but to MacDonald’s query if they were the 
ones they were looking for, she answered 
they were not. When they reached the pro- 
vost office, and were ushered into the pres- 
ence of the provost sergeant, MacDonald 
said quietly, Allow me, if you please. Miss 
Wickliffe, to arrange this matter.” He 


76 


DONALD Macdonald 


then proceeded to state his case to the pro- 
vost sergeant. 

When they entered the room the sergeant 
ceased picking his teeth, and rising to his 
feet, stood at attention. 

^^We are always having complaints from 
these Southern folks about our men,’^ he 
said. ''They don’t like to see ’em in uni- 
form. ’ ’ 

Don ’s face flushed. ' ' I want no comments 
from you. I intend to see that this particu- 
lar negro is punished. I am here to see that 
Colonel Wicklitfe’s order is obeyed.” 

"I guess” — the provost sergeant was 
from Vermont — "the man who done it is 
on furlough.” 

"Just look at the list of your furlough 
men and see when they are due at bar- 
racks.” 

The sergeant cleared his throat. All this 
bother came of the girl’s pretty face, and 
having a Yankee colonel for an uncle ! He 
turned over the list, and then said in rather 
an embarrassed manner, "I find all our 
men are due at twelve o’clock to-day, sir.” 

"Ten minutes,” replied Don, looking at 
his watch. "We will wait until then. Sit 
down, Miss Wickliffe, and by that time 


DONALD Macdonald 


77 


Captain Williams, the provost officer, will 
be here. He is a classmate of mine,’^ and 
for the first time Don smiled reassuringly 
as he looked into Fanny Wicklifte’s hand- 
some bine eyes. 

They sat together while waiting for the 
clock to crawl its ten minutes. To Don the 
room was strange, but pretty Fanny Wick- 
litfe knew it well. Wearily she leaned her 
head on the old rosewood sofa and called 
back three years ago. She forgot the negro, 
forgot her errand. To her mind the war 
had not come; the room in which she sat 
and two adjoining rooms were thrown into 
one, the good old plantation music poured 
out, and she herself in white muslin danced 
the evening through. Her father was alive 
then. The girFs eyes grew dim. She had 
forgotten Donald, but his keen gray eyes 
had been anxiously regarding her. Twice 
he had struggled with himself to speak. 
Now when he saw her eyes fill he turned 
impulsively : 

^^Don’t,’^ he implored, ‘Hor God’s sake ! 
I can’t bear it! I assure you. Miss Wick- 
liffe, upon my honor, that I will have this 
negro punished.” 

Fanny Wicklitfe almost laughed. Tears 


78 


DONALD Macdonald 


for a negro! What a boy this officer is! 
But she said nothing. How could she ex- 
plain to a stranger the thousand chords so 
rudely touched by her visit to the dear old 
house? 

Tivelve, The old hall clock caught its 
breath and said so, and almost at the very 
ending of the strike the call came for din- 
ner. 

The provost sergeant went out on the 
porch. Don and Miss Wickliffie followed. 
Around the side of the house crowded the 
ex-slaves that Uncle Sam in his conceit felt 
contained good soldier material. The girDs 
lip curled. Two renegades of the Wickliffie 
place stood at the foot of the stairs almost 
touching her. Don was annoyed. Where 
was Williams ? He was always late. Just 
as the men formed in line, a buggy drove 
up and out jumped Captain Williams. Don 
walked to meet him and in a hurried con- 
versation told him of Colonel Wickliffe’s 
order, and also that to identify the man 
Miss Wicklitfe had accompanied him. The 
men formed and the roll was called. Cap- 
tain Williams courteously lifted his cap 
and approached Miss Wickliffe. 


DONALD Macdonald 79 

‘‘Can yon identify the man, Miss Wick- 

liffer^ 

“I can if he is here,” replied the girl; 
“and I shall be sure to make no mistake.” 

As she spoke she abruptly left MacDon- 
ald’s side for just one instant, for he im- 
mediately followed her, and together they 
marched down in front of the negro 
soldiers. Once, twice, and then Fanny Wick- 
liffe turned to the provost captain. 

‘ ‘ The man is not here. ’ ’ 

The Captain turned to his sergeant : 
“You have called the roll I ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir; all have answered.” 

The girl spoke, and her voice was just 
a bit louder. “I assure you. Captain Wil- 
liams, that I know the man well and he is 
not here.” 

“Call the roll again,” interrupted the 
Captain, as the sergeant started to make an 
explanakon. The roll was called again, 
and this time Fanny watched anxiously. 
She felt sure the man was not in the ranks 
and that some one had answered for him. 
Just as the fifth name was reached there 
was a slight break in the back rank. Step- 
ping quickly forward, she exclaimed as she 


80 


DONALD Macdonald 


caught sight of the red necktie, ‘‘There is 
the man ! ’ ^ 

“Sergeant,’’ rang out Captain Wil- 
liams’s voice, “arrest him,” and the ser- 
geant grabbed the negro before he had an 
opportunity to answer to his name. 

Fanny Wicklitfe drew a deep breath of 
relief, but she realized that her work was 
only partly done. Going over to the Cap- 
tain she lifted her eyes to his face with the 
question : 

“How do you intend to punish him?” 

The Captain hesitated. 

“What do you want done with him?” he 
asked. 

The girl replied at once, “I want you to 
give him fifty lashes.” 

To the mind of Fanny Wickliffe fifty 
lashes was the most severe punishment 
ever meted out to any human individual. 
Years ago she remembered a story of a 
negro who killed his wife. It was a brutal 
tale of ante-bellum days. The couple had 
not been married long and in a burst of 
jealousy the negro killed his wife. This had 
happened way down in Mississippi on her 
grandfather’s plantation. All the children 
of the Wickliffe family remembered the 


# 


DONALD MaoDONALD 


81 


story of the man’s escape; how the detec- 
tives tracked him over hill and dale, and 
finally found him in the negro’s usual hid- 
ing place, the swamp ; of their bringing him 
back in the early morning and showing him 
to her grandfather, with the words, ‘‘Here, 
Colonel; here’s your nigger,” and of her 
grandfather’s saying, “Yes, gentlemen, he 
is mine, and before the law takes him I 
shall take an owner’s right — the first time 
I have ever taken it. Overseer, give him 
fifty lashes.” The mother and father of 
the murdered girl stood at the house steps 
during this scene, and many times they 
had recited the incident. The fact that he 
was finally hanged amounted, in the minds 
of his fellow slaves, to vepr little compared 
to the punishment he received from the naan 
who owned him. Down on the plantation 
the negroes would relate the tale and finish 
it with, “Old master dun giv him fifty 
lashes.” It did not occur to her that the 
government wanted to treat colored 
soldiers and white soldiers alike, and that 
perhaps the Captain in command might not 
want to inflict such punishment on a Fed- 
eral soldier. 

Captain Williams turned to the sergeant 


82 


DONALD Macdonald 


and ordered liim to bring the man to him. 
The negro, feeling that nothing but a whip- 
ping faced him, turned on both the officer 
and sergeant and cursed them roundly. 

Fanny Wickliffe’s lips curled. This was a 
Federal soldier ! They were welcome to all 
of them as far as she was concerned. 

The sergeant shook the man by the collar 
and warned him that he had said enough, 
but the negroes tongue could not be curbed. 
The words rolled out until finally the ser- 
geant used his fists. Down went the black 
man, and before he could rise to his feet. 
Captain Williams said, ‘ ‘ Take him into the 
back lot and give him fifty lashes.” 

Fanny Wicklitfe turned wearily away. 
Now that she had succeeded in her mission 
her spirit sank. She regretted down in the 
bottom of her heart that she could not have 
fifty lashes administered to each and every 
individual in the Federal Army and so end 
the war. But she was not unmindful, 
though, of MacDonald ^s kindness, and 
turning to Captain Williams, she thanked 
him very briefly, but civilly; but her voice 
and manner changed when she came to give 
her hand to MacDonald. 

‘'You are not going to get rid of me,” 


DONALD Macdonald 83 

said Donald. ‘ ‘ I shall go with you to your 
home. ’ ’ 

‘‘But,’’ said the girl, “I am not in the 
least afraid,” 

“Your uncle’s orders to me were that 
you were not to go home alone, and I in- 
tend to obey him. ’ ’ 

These words ended the discussion and 
they left the village together. The weather 
had grown a little cooler and to Donald, at 
any rate, the walk to Wickland was very 
pleasant. 

Constant field service had kept Don from 
the society of all young women, and being 
with an attractive girl once more gave him 
more pleasure than he had experienced for 
many weary months. He did not see the 
faded summer gown, he only took note of 
the graceful lines in the girlish figure that 
the dress could not conceal. 

Show me, my good reader, the boy who 
does not like a pretty girl and you will 
show me a boy who is not worth a sixpence. 
Now Don was worth a good deal, as we 
have seen. He had been badly treated by 
Aimee Lafitte, but they say the heart can 
be easily caught upon the rebound. 


CHAPTER XI 

When Don left town he thought Miss 
Wicklitfe a very charming girl. When they 
stopped on the fallen tree for a moment ^s 
rest she was the handsomest woman he had 
ever seen, and when they walked up the old 
locust avenue she was the handsomest crea- 
ture in the world and Don would have 
fought any man who dared dispute it. The 
walk from Bardstown to Wickland is not 
more than two miles, and yet before Donald 
had gone half the distance he found himself 
talking as frankly to Fanny as if they had 
been reared together. Mrs. Wicklitfe and 
her children had waited anxiously since 
midday for her daughter's return, and 
finally Buck, the servant, had been dis- 
patched to find his mistress. 

As Fanny and MacDonald made their 
way under the trees the children gathered 
from all quarters. Mrs. Wicklitfe was 
alaimed at first when she saw Donald’s 
84 


DONALD MacDonald 85 

Federal uniform, but seeing her daughter 
looked far from being disturbed, she greet- 
ed him with courtesy, and a few words suf- 
ficed to tell the day’s experience, and Don- 
ald spent the remaining hours of the after- 
noon talking to Mrs. Wicklifte on the ver- 
anda. It pleased the good lady greatly to 
find MacDonald was a Virginian, and after 
some pleasant moments spent in conversa- 
tion Mrs. Wicklitfe insisted that he remain 
to tea. And as the setting sun cast a rosy 
glow over old Wickland, Don sat down 
to supper with pretty Fanny Wicklitfe and 
the other members of her family. 

They had not been seated at the table 
long when the cook, bringing in the hot 
waffles, bent over her mistress and said, 
'‘Buck is back, mistis, and he say he’s got 
to speak to Miss Fanny.” 

' ' Go out and tell Buck to wait until after 
tea,” replied Mrs. Wicklitfe. 

The woman returned in a moment and in 
a trembling voice said, "He say. Miss 
Rhoda, he kain’t wait.” 

"What is it, mother?” asked Fanny. 

"My dear,” responded her mother, 
"Buck insists upon seeing you. I pre- 
sume,” she continued in explanation to 


86 


DONALD Macdonald 


MacDonald, ‘‘he wants to see for himself 
that she has arrived safely.’^ 

When Fanny entered the butler ^s pan- 
try she found Buck drawn up against the 
wall, the perfect picture of abject misery. 

‘ ‘ Buck ! ’ ^ exclaimed the girl, ‘ ‘ they have 
found Black Bob ? ^ ’ 

“No, honey, replied the negro, “dey 
ain’t; but de town roughs is cornin’ here fur 
ter git de young officer, and I heard ’em 
say dey wuz goin’ to hang him as high as 
Hamon. I lef ’ ’em at de spring a mile from 
town an’ dey ’ll be here in one minute.” 

Frances thought one instant and then 
said, “We must get him off the place. 
Buck. ’ ’ 

“How kin we, honey? He’s bound to 
meet ’em, an’ dey ’ll riddle him wid bullets, 
an’ dey done threaten to hang me if I tole. 
You kain’t hide him, honey, dey knows he’s 
here. Dey wuz drinkin ’ at de tavern when 
you botf come by.” 

“I’m not afraid of any of the town boys. 
They would not dare annoy me,” said 
Fanny. 

“Honey,” implored Buck, “doan’ say it; 
ain’t I see ’em shoot Mrs. Smith’s nigger 


DONALD Macdonald 87 

man only las’ week? I’m a dead nigger, 
sure, ’ ’ and Buck broke down and wept. 

The position was a trying one. For her- 
self Fanny felt no fear of any one in the 
village, but the men were of the worthless 
type so well known in all Southern towns, 
and when full of rum they were to be 
dreaded. Feeling that everything depended 
upon her, she steadied her nerves and turn- 
ing quickly upon Buck, who was still cry- 
ing, she clapped her hands loudly close to 
his face. ‘‘Hush up!” she said. “Hush 
at once and close the house. Bar up every- 
thing. ’ ’ 

“Mother, these shutters must be closed. 
Buck says the town roughs are coming out 
here after Captain MacDonald. “Now, 
she continued, after everything was made 
fast, “you stay here, mother, with the chil- 
dren and Captain MacDonald and I will go 
upon the roof and see what we can before it 
grows too dark.” 

“It may be,” she said, as they mounted 
the wide stairway, “that they have turned 
aside and gone elsewhere.” 

Here Buck, who was following them, in- 
terrupted. “Doan’ let de officer show his- 
seff. Miss Fanny; yo’ kin see his uniform 


88 


DONALD Macdonald 


a long way off. It wuz dat new nniform 
an’ dem bright buttons what put it into 
them devils ter cum dis way. ’ ’ 

As Fanny Wickliffe opened the door of 
the roof balcony she anxiously scanned the 
road to town, which lay in plain view. 

‘^Do you see anything!” asked Don. 

Nothing,” she replied. ‘^Wait. Yes, 
they are coming. ’ ’ 

‘‘How many did you say, Buck!” 

“Eight, chile,” replied the negro. 

“I can only count six, two may have 
dropped away. They are walking their 
horses.” 

“Have you any firearms!” asked Don. 
“I have a pistol with me,” he added, “but 
unfortunately it only carries six bullets.” 

“We have one gun and plenty of am- 
munition, but if the locks do not hold we 
stand a poor show against six or eight men. 
And they can surround the house. We have 
windows on all sides, but not enough to hold 
them. ’ ’ 

“Well, Miss Wickliffe, you have two 
men. Buck and I, and we certainly are go- 
.ing to defend you and not stand back and 
let you defend us.” 

“No, no,” entreated the girl, as Don 


DONALD Macdonald 89 

made an attempt to slip out upon the bal- 
cony, ‘ ‘ do not show yourself ! ^ ’ 

‘‘Marster,^’ Buck broke in, ‘‘Miss Fan- 
ny ain’t in no danger — it’s only you. Dem 
rapscallions ain’t goin’ ter tech Miss Fanny 
an’ Miss Rhoda or dem chilluns.” 

“Well, then,” replied Don, “I’ll just 
leave the house and meet these loafers.” 

“You will do nothing of the sort,” the 
girl replied angrily. “You are going to be 
sensible. Why would you throw your life 
away? I think I can scare those toughs. If 
I can’t and there is any fighting, why — ^you 
can certainly do it. Buck, is McCord one of 
those men?” 

“Yes, missy.” 

“I thought so. He has been drunk for 
days. ’ ’ 

“Yes, miss,” replied Buck. “All day 
yesterday his poor ma she had to walk 
’round arter him fur ter keep him from 
killin’ her onliest cow.” 

“Buck,” exclaimed the girl, “they are 
dismounting ! ’ ’ 

“Just gettin’ otf to fill up again. Dey 
is all blind drunk; wuz when dey lef’ de 
tavern.” 

“Two of the horsemen have left the 


90 


DONALD Macdonald 


others and are coming on here. Close the 
door/’ Don entreated, ^‘and come inside.” 

When they reached the second story the 
horsemen were entering the avenue. 

^Mnst a moment,” Fanny insisted, 
‘‘please be guided by me. If they come to 
this door I shall do the talking. You, Capt. 
MacDonald, stand in the background there 
in the corner by the secretary, and shoot 
dead the first man who comes in. Now, 
mother, listen. Hold the children well in 
the background. No lights. Buck. Bring 
in the stable lantern and throw the light 
full on their faces. Then we can see them 
and they cannot see us.” 

Hardly were these preparations com- 
plete when two pairs of feet clattered up 
the porch steps and some one plied the old 
knocker. 

‘ ‘ Buck, ’ ’ whispered the girl, ‘ ‘ if you hear 
horses’ footsteps or any noise that makes 
you think the others are coming, slam the 
door to. Don’t wait. I am not afraid of 
two drunken men, but I do not care to fight 
with eight.” 

Buck lifted the heavy iron bar and the 
door swung in. The old hall formed the 
darkest background for Fanny Wickliffe’s 


DONALD Macdonald 


91 


figure. For all that the men on the porch 
knew, a dozen soldiers might have lurked in 
the dark shadows — instead of just Donald, 
standing almost in touching distance of 
Fanny Wickliffe, with every nerve tense, a 
loaded revolver clasped in his hand ready 
at a word from her to shoot any man who 
disobeyed her. 

As Buck lifted the lantern and threw the 
light upon the faces of the two trespassers, 
Fanny asked angrily, ‘‘What do you 
wantr^ 

The spokesman said almost in an apolo- 
getic tone, “We’s not come to harm yo’ or 
yo’ mother. We want the Yankee officer 
who’s stayin’ here.” 

“Is that all?” asked the girl. 

“Yes, miss,” responded the man, “that’s 
all.” 

“Well, Charles McCord, you see I know 
you,” replied the girl. “You can’t have 
him, and you couldn’t have him if you were 
five hundred men, with five thousand more 
back of you. You dog, I know you well. 
Don’t you think for one moment that I have 
forgotten that you are a thief.” The man 
started forward. ‘ ‘ Stop, ’ ’ warned the girl, 
“put your foot inside that door and you are 


92 


DONALD Macdonald 


a dead man. Go to those other drunkards 
in the lane and tell them to go back to Dug- 
gan ^s groggery^ or let them stay where they 
are if they like, and get killed, for my Uncle 
John Wickliffe is on his way from town at 
this very moment. Go!^’ ordered the girl, 
and as the men started for the steps she 
whispered to Don, ‘'Quick, fire over their 
heads!’’ and as the two shots broke the 
stillness of the night two badly frightened 
men galloped down the avenue to carry the 
news to their waiting comrades that John 
Wickliffe was riding like hell to get there, 
and they had better mosey back to town. 

Don remained at Wickland that night at 
the earnest solicitation of Mrs. Wickliffe. 
His rest was not profound. He dreamed 
and awoke to fall asleep and dream again 
the same old dream. In his dreams he 
seemed to be walking through a lane ; 
sometimes the ground was rough and some- 
times smooth ; at times it was summer and 
then again autumn leaves came shower- 
ing down upon their heads, for Fannie was 
always with him. Then again they crossed 
a stream by wading through the clear 
water, and so all night Don dreamed of 
Fanny Wickliffe. 


CHAPTER XII 


Next morning Don improved the ac- 
quaintance with the Wickliffe family, and 
promising to avail himself of Mrs. Wick- 
liffe’s invitation to call soon again, he walk- 
ed into town and reported the previous 
day’s happenings to Colonel Wickliffe. 

Donald’s sojourn in Bardstown was of 
several weeks’ duration, and during that 
time every evening was spent at Wickland. 
Every night when Don bade the WicklifPe 
family farewell he would say, am afraid 
I shall not see you again for some time. I 
expect my orders to-morrow!” But the 
morrow failing to bring the orders, Mac- 
Donald, as he argued with himself, felt it 
his duty to call and inquire for Mrs. Wick- 
lilfe’s health, which really was far from 
good. 

Youth adapts itself very quickly to pleas- 
ant surroundings, and when the expected 
orders finally arrived Donald felt very 
much cut up. He was perfectly conscious 
93 


94 


DONALD Macdonald 


of the fact that the image of the shallow 
little Creole girl had been entirely wiped 
out by the handsome Kentucky woman; and 
often at night when Donald would be lying 
alone in the darkness the image of Fanny 
Wickliffe, standing as she stood the night 
she defended him from the Bardstown 
roughs, would come before him, and Don’s 
heart would beat faster and his rest be far 
more uneasy than is good for a man in war 
times. 

Only a few weeks had passed since Fanny 
Wickliffe ’s visit to the provost, and yet 
many changes had come to Bardstown. 
Colonel Wickliffe had been ordered to Ten- 
nessee, the provost officer had been 
changed. Don’s friend and classmate had 
been ordered away and a man by the name 
of Green, a rabid Northerner, had come to 
take his place. 

There was another condition that the 
people of Bardstown had to deal with and 
that was the ever-present guerrilla force 
commanded by MacGruder. These thieves 
and murderers filled the streets by day and 
were a terror to the respectable portion of 
Bardstown citizens by night. Not far from 
Bardstown, but in an opposite direction 


DONALD Macdonald 


95 


from Wickland, some Yankee officers who 
were badly wounded had been cared for and 
nursed back to health by one of those good 
and unselfish Southern women whom we all 
admire so much. Despite the fact that her 
own two boys were in the gray army, Mrs. 
Hardin cared for and tended the wants of 
these two Yankee boys, as she called them, 
as faithfully as she would have taken care 
of her own sons. 

Imagine the horror and consternation of 
this household when, one warm afternoon 
as the two invalids were resting on the wide 
porch, twenty guerrillas rode up, yelling 
and shooting. Before they dismounted Mrs. 
Hardin rushed to the foot of the stairs. 
Holding up her arms she addressed herself 
directly to MacGrruder, who commanded the 
desperadoes : 

“Mr. MacGruder, spare my guests and 
shoot me. I have nursed these boys who 
are about the age of my own sons. I want 
to send them back to their mothers, as I 
hope some good Northern woman would be 
willing to send me back my sons, safe and 
well. You were born a gentleman — spare 
them, for God ’s sake ! ’ ’ 

MacGruder thrust her aside. Eecovering 


96 


DONALD Macdonald 


herself, Mrs. Hardin ran np the stairs and 
threw her arms around Lieutenant 
Brimsby. MacGruder, not in the least af- 
fected by the woman’s plea for mercy, 
placed his revolver against the poor fel- 
low’s heart and killed him as Mrs. Hardin 
held him in her arms. This awful incident, 
with many others to bear it company, filled 
Bardstown with consternation and distress, 
and finally the streets of the village were 
not safe at night and the ride to Wickland 
was not without its dangers. 

Don’s last day in Bardstown had come 
and he was to spend the night at old Wick- 
land. 

On the evening of which I write the Wick- 
liffe house was gayer than it had been since 
the beginning of the war, for Mrs. Wick- 
liffe had given her consent for a servant’s 
ball. 

The music of Uncle Bob’s famous fiddle 
came through the open doors and the big 
hall was filled with guests. Suddenly a dis- 
cord arose from the kitchen and the music 
ceased. Simultaneously with the breaking 
off of the music, Martha, a negro girl, came 
hastily into the hall and approached her 
mistress. She had hardly spoken to Mrs. 


DONALD Macdonald 


97 


Wickliffe when the latter said, ‘^Captain 
MacDonald, some Federal soldiers are an- 
noying the servants. Will you see about 
itr^ 

MacDonald went to the kitchen in com- 
pany with several members of the family, 
and found some half-dozen soldiers stand- 
ing back against the wall. Walking over to 
them he said, You men must not interfere 
here. These women do not care to dance 
with you and you have no right to seize 
them and force them to do so.” 

The girl who had reported the matter 
stepped indignantly forward, and pointing 
her finger in the face of one of the men said 
wrathfully, ‘‘That’s the one. He grabbed 
me away from Ben and ’most carried me 
round the floor. ’ ’ 

“This must not occur again,” said Mac- 
Donald, authoritatively. “You can look on 
only. Remember that, men,” and turning, 
he left the kitchen. 

For the time being everything was ap- 
parently serene. There was no more dis- 
turbance and the soldiers left at an early 
hour for town. The servants’ dance broke 
up at twelve, and shortly after every one 
was in bed and asleep at Wickland. 


98 DONALD MacDONALD 

The clock had struck two, when a small 
body of men could be seen making their 
way up the locust avenue. There was an 
officer in command. Softly halting the 
men, he called one of the privates to him. 

^‘This is the place, Benson!^’ Upon re- 
ceiving an affirmative answer, he ordered 
the soldiers to surround the house, and 
advancing to the front door, he plied the 
knocker. Buck’s slumber had been unusu- 
ally sound, for a drink composed of half 
hard cider and half whiskey is a castiron 
nightcap. But at the sound of the voice of 
his mistress, he dragged his scattered facul- 
ties together. Slipping on some of his 
clothes, he hastened down-stairs and undid 
the door. As soon as the door was opened, 
the officer asked if there was not a man 
there whose name began with Mac. 

^‘Sure, sir,” replied Buck; ^‘Captain 
MacDonald. ’ ’ 

‘^Well, call him,” replied the officer, ^‘my 
business is with him.” By this time the 
whole house had been aroused. 

As MacDonald entered the room the offi- 
cer, who was one of the provost officer’s 
guard, eyed him closely. Stepping up to 


DONALD Macdonald 99 

him, he said, ‘^Mr. MacGruder, you are 
under arrest.’’ 

For an instant Don’s breath was taken 
away. 

‘ ^ MacDonald, ’ ’ he said, ^ ‘ is my name, and 
I am an officer in the Federal Army. ’ ’ 

^^Well,” continued the officer, ^^you will 
have to be searched. I have information 
which proves pretty conclusively that you 
are the guerrilla chief, MacGruder. Have 
you any papers on you that I can seel” 

MacDonald’s hand sought his coat 
pocket. ‘^Only this,” he replied, drawing 
out a letter written by an old classmate. 
The letter contained only a few lines, as 
follows : 

''Dear Old Mach: 

will not be long, I hope, before our 
sturdy North will be united with your glori- 
ous South in a permanent peace. 

Yours, Tom Walters.” 

i 

The officer read the letter, folded it up 
and placed it in his coat pocket. Turning 
to the sergeant with him, he said, ‘^Form 
the men.” Mrs. Wickliffie then came for- 
ward. 


tore. 


100 DONALD Macdonald 

beg you not to take this young man 
away in this manner. It will not be difficult 
for him to prove that he is Captain Mac- 
Donald. He is my guest, and 1 will be re- 
sponsible for him. Let him remain here 
until I send a messenger to Colonel Eli 
Long, who is camping to-night near the old 
convent, and to whose command this young 
man belongs.” 

am very sorry, madam, but I have 
Captain Green’s orders to bring this yo^g 
man to town to-night, and I dare not diso- 
bey him. If he is Captain MacDonald, and 
can prove it, he has nothing to fear ; but if 
he does not prove it to-night we will hang 
him for MacGruder at sunrise.” 

An unpleasant predicament faced Don. 
He had no papers save that short letter, 
which had made matters worse for him. 
Turning to Mrs. Wickliffe, he laughed, and, 
stooping down, he pressed his lips to her 
hand. ‘‘Do not be afraid for me, Mrs. 
Wickliffe. I only regret that you have 
been hauled out of bed at this early hour. ’ ’ 
As he straightened himself up, Mrs. Wick- 
lifPe’s eyes filled with tears. 

“My boy, my dear boy,” she said, “what 
will you dp?” 


DONALD Macdonald loi 

must get word to Long,’’ he replied, 
‘ ‘ to come and identify me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Come, ’ ’ interrupted the provost officer, 
‘^please step out on the porch. Don did so 
and was quickly surrounded, two men on 
each side, two in front, and two behind him. 
“Now,” ordered the officer, “forward, 
march!” The men moved down the ave- 
nue, and as they got away from the house, 
Don was warned if he made any attempt to 
escape, he would he shot on the spot. 

As Don marched on, he had no sensation 
except astonishment. He had no difficulty 
in recognizing one of the men as one of 
those in the crowd of soldiers at the ser- 
vants’ dance at Mrs. Wickliffe’s. But to 
be accused of being MacGruder seemed to 
him to he ridiculous. However, the affair 
was one of sober earnest. Now it is not 
pleasant to contemplate being hanged, and 
Donald made up his mind that he would not 
do so until he had to. Wlien the guard and 
their prisoner reached the court-room. Cap- 
tain Green was lolling back in the judge’s 
chair, but as the soldiers entered, he 
straightened up, and his expression was 
one of interest. The men permitted Donald 
room to stand in front of the judge’s chair. 


102 DONALD MacDONALD 


exclairaed Captain Green, ‘‘so, 
MacGruder, IVe got you at last/’ 

“You are mistaken, Captain,” rejoined 
Don. “lam Captain Donald MacDonald of 
the Federal Army. ’ ’ 

“You are!” fairly shouted the little 
Captain; “you dare say that to me, you 
darn rebel, and clad in butternut at that ! ’ ’ 
Donald’s face flushed crimson. “I wear 
butternut when I am not on duty,” he re^ 
joined, “because I like it. My uniform is 
with my company, Battery M, of Colonel 
Eli Long’s command. I am to report to 
him to-morrow. If you will kindly let me 
have a messenger. I’ll send word to the 
Colonel to send some one here to identify 
me.” 

As Don spoke the man who had arrested 
him put his hand in his pocket and quietly 
handed the letter he had taken from Donald 
to Captain Green. As the Captain read the 
letter his face was a study. Temper, pleas- 
ure, satisfaction, all chased each other in 
succession. When he had finished he 
leaned over the table in front of him and 
said to Donald, “Do you dare in the face 
of this conclusive evidence, claim you are 
any other than MacGruder I” 


DONALD MacDONALD 103 

do, indeed/’ returned Don. ‘‘Will 
you let me have a messenger 

“No, I won’t,” rejoined Green, bringing 
down his hand with a resounding slap ; “ I’ll 
send no one on any such .fool’s errand, by 
Jinks ! But I will hang you at sun-up ! ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XIII 


I' 


Donald arrest had left the Wickliffe 
household in a state of consternation. Mrs. 
Wicklilfe and her daughter both felt the 
occasion was far more serious than had 
MacDonald. To the minds of the excited 
women the young man’s doom was sealed. 

Mrs. Wicklilfe returned to her room in a 
state of the greatest distress. To Fanny it 
was a time for action and not a time for 
useless tears. To reach Long — how was 
she to do that? Who could she send? Then 
like a flash the thought came rushing to her 
that made her grow hot and cold by turns. 
She would go herself— why not? Wasn’t 
Bob the swiftest, fleetest horse in the coun- 
try? 

But a woman riding at night alone? Then 
she would go in men’s clothes. A suit of 
her uncle’s hung up-stairs, left there upon 
the occasion of his last visit. Fanny 
brought the suit down and sought her own 
room. The flickering candle sent weird 
104 


DONALD MacDONALD 105 


shadows up and down the wall. The flash 
of brass buttons was refleeted in the mir- 
ror. The girl almost held her breath when 
the task was done. She turned up the col- 
lar of the blouse, and, plaiting her hair, put 
it down her back and buttoned her coat up 
tight over it. 

John Wickliffe was a slender man, and 
when all was adjusted and pulled into 
shape, the fit might have been worse. Go- 
ing softly down the stairs, Fanny went 
through the stable-yard, turned the key she 
had brought with her, and softly speaking 
to Bob, felt in the dark for the nail where 
her own bridle always hung. Finding it 
and also her brother's saddle, she gave a 
soft little whistle, and Black Bob hacked 
out of the stall. 

‘ ^ Steady, boy, ^ ’ muttered the girl, and in 
a flash the bridle was slipped into place, 
and she was leading him down the avenue. 
There was no hurry until the front gate was 
passed. She pulled the big gate open and 
closed it behind her, then drawing her 
soldier cap down firmly over her eyes, 
vaulted upon Bob’s hack, and they were 
off. A short gallop to town, and then 
Fanny slackened speed. Through the vil- 


106 


DONALD Macdonald 


lage, that lay in almost total darkness, then 
out of town at last straight away down the 
road that led to Louisville. It was like 
plunging into a dark gulf. She could see 
only a few feet in front of Bob. The white 
road and everything else was blackest dark- 
ness all about, but she trusted entirely to 
the sagacity of Bob, who knew the road. 
Suddenly to the girl’s ears there came a 
most decided sound of horses’ feet and 
voices. Instantly she drew rein. They were 
men’s voices and they were singing. 

^ ^ Steady, Bob, ’ ’ entreated the girl. She 
could not turn back. To the left there was 
a ditch. Touching Bob softly with her heels, 
and turning the bridle a bit to the left, the 
horse took the ditch in a breath. Once over, 
she drew him up sharply, and then, being 
well in the shadow of some trees, she reined 
him in and waited. 

Nearer and nearer came the men. 
Thump, thump ! go the horses ’ feet, keep- 
ing time to the beat of the girl’s heart. 
They are near enough almost to see, but 
they are intent upon their song, and they 
sweep by in a gallop and leave the road 
free once more. To get Bob back into the 
road is the work of a moment, and they are 


DONALD Macdonald 107 


off again, and this time nothing occurs to 
stay them. Four miles have passed and she 
is well into the fifth mile when she sees the 
camp-fires. Hurrying Bob on, she only 
halts him when the sentry brings his gnn 
sharply up in front of him with the chal- 
lenge of, ‘‘Who goes there F’ 

“A friend,^’ the girl replies. Her lips 
are almost stiff, for now and only now she 
begins to realize that she must face the 
Colonel in her uncle’s clothes. The sentry 
recognizes the uniform and brings his mus- 
ket down. 

The sergeant of the guard joins the sen- 
try and asks her what she wants. 

“I wish to see Colonel Long at once on a 
very important matter.” The girl’s voice 
and the Federal colonel’s clothes! Surely 
there is truth in the saying, that the clothes 
cannot make the man. 

She does not want to dismount until she 
has to. “Will you lead my horse to Col- 
onel Long’s tentr’ she asks the sergeant. 

The sergeant waves the other members 
of the guard aside, and, taking hold of 
Black Bob’s bridle, leads the way to the 
Colonel’s tent. Colonel Long had been 
asleep for some hours. He turns impa- 


108 DONALD MacDONALD 


tiently on his bunk when the sergeant re- 
ports, ‘ ^ One of onr officers to see you, sir. ^ ’ 

‘^Well,’^ retorts the Colonel, ^‘show him 
in.’^ The sergeant goes out to Fanny 
Wickliffe and delivers the messagei. 

She dismounts and enters quickly. It is 
all the better for her that the inside of the 
tent is too dark for him to see anything but 
a dim outline. The only light is cast from 
the camp-fire outside. 

The sergeant of the guard holds Bob’s 
bridle in one hand and lifts up the flap of 
the tent with the other, and as he stands at 
the opening of the tent and watches the live 
coals of the camp-fire, he thinks to himself 
of the queer things that happen in war- 
time. Babies are sent out to fight, kids 
with hands and faces as soft as a girl’s. 
How many he has seen go bravely out in 
the morning and lay at night with the new 
uniform spattered with blood, and their 
boyish faces turned upward to the stars 
above them ! 

At the first sound of Fanny’s voice, Col- 
onel Long gets up from his bunk and reach- 
es for his coat, the only part of his wearing 
apparel that he has slept without. Me- 
chanically he dons the coat, meantime lis- 


DONALD Macdonald io9 


tening to the girl’s voice. She is so excited 
and has been under such a nervous strain 
for hours that she makes no effort to dis- 
guise her voice. She tells the Colonel 
quickly of MacDonald’s danger and be- 
seeches him to go or send to Bards town at 
once. 

When she entered the tent she had for 
one brief moment been painfully aware of 
her uniform; so much so, that had Black 
Bob worn a blanket she might have yielded 
to an impulse and worn it for a skirt. Un- 
fortunately, Bob had nothing in the shape 
of a blanket to offer his mistress, and 
Fanny was compelled to brazen the matter 
out. 

For a few moments at the beginning of 
the interview the officer had grave misgiv- 
ings as to his visitor’s intentions, but as 
the soft, cultivated voice of the Southern 
girl rose and fell the Colonel’s confidence 
in her honesty of purpose grew. Up to this 
time they had both been facing each other. 
Fanny, mindful that soldiers remove their 
hats in the presence of their superiors, had 
taken off her cap when she entered the tent, 
and she now held it in front of her with 


110 DONALD Macdonald 


both hands, turning it restlessly as she 
talked. I 

The wind and the motion of the ride had 
loosened the hair about her face, her 
cheeks and lips were crimson, and as the 
firelight flickered in upon her from the 
burning logs outside, the Colonel thought 
that from the top of her head to the toe of 
her riding-boot she was the handsomest 
woman he had ever seen. It was not a dif- 
ficult story for an old soldier to read. A 
handsome young officer, a pretty girl — just 
the same old story. The Colonel noted the 
uniform and guessed how she came by it, 
but instead of asking her the regiment she 
served with, he asked her her name; and 
when she replied ^^Wickliffie,’’ he rejoin- 
ed, ^^One of the proudest names in the 
State. ’ ’ Then the Colonel called his orderly 
and ordered his horse and an escort of 
twenty men. ^^For,-^ he explained, ‘‘I do 
not care to meet the real MacGruder; do 
youT’ 

So it came to pass that a short time after 
the Colonel and his escort took the road 
that led to Bardstown, and before the first 
faint rays of day began to dawn in the east, 
he gallantly dismounted at the old Wick- 


DONALD Macdonald 


111 


land gate and held it open for Black Bob 
to canter throngh, and as he turned his own 
horse slowly into the lane that led back to 
sleepy Bardstown, he very softly muttered 
under his breath, ‘‘What won’t a girl do 
for the man she loves! The same old tale, 
but new every time it’s told. Dear me, dear 
me !” 

When the Colonel reached the court- 
house he found several members of Captain 
Green’s command on guard over Don, for 
the Captain had deferred the threatened 
hanging until nine o’clock. Don was sit- 
ting with his arms folded before him, rather 
anxiously wondering what the fates had in 
store for him. It is needless to say that 
at the sight of Colonel Long he felt very 
much relieved. The Colonel advanced, and 
after shaking him by the hand sent word 
to Captain Green that he would like to see 
him. The little Captain, who had enjoyed 
a few hours of rest, returned with the mes- 
senger, and was much chagrined to find 
that he had not caught MacGruder after 
all. Colonel Long gave Captain Green the 
benefit of his opinion in a few terse, sharp 
sentences, that went a long way to make 


112 DONALD MaoDONALD 


up to Don for his hours of uneasiness and 
discomfort. 

As they descended the court-house steps 
together the Colonel asked Don if he would 
ride back to camp with him. 

^‘You are not due until to-night, but as 
the Mac in your name seems to make this 
vicinity a little unhealthy for you, perhaps 
you may care to return with me. ^ ’ 

would like to let the Wickliffes, some 
friends of mine, just out of town, know that 
this bit of fool^s play is over,’’ rejoined 
Don, ‘ ‘ and get my horse. I was obliged to 
leave him there, as they made me walk to 
town under a guard. ’ ’ 

<<yery well,” returned the Colonel, with 
a twinkle in his eye that was entirely lost 
upon Don. ‘^See the Wicklitfes by all 
means, and good luck go with you ! ’ ’ 

When Fanny reached the stable door af- 
ter her midnight ride she realized that she 
would have to stay there and wait for Buck. 
Closing the door she rubbed the horse 
down, and sitting upon an inverted bucket 
opposite the door she patiently waited for 
sunrise. When Buck first tumbled down- 
stairs in the morning he felt for the stable 


DONALD Macdonald 113 


key in the usual place and was horrified not 
to find it. The startled negro ^s first thought 
was that some one had entered the house, 
and finding the key had opened the stable 
and made off with Black Bob, and the Cap- 
tain’s horse also. Running to the stable 
he found it unlocked, and plunging in he 
was confronted by Fanny, who stood up to 
meet him. The Federal uniform was 
enough for Buck, and not waiting to see 
her face, he fell upon his knees and offered 
up a wild, frenzied prayer. 

‘^Please, marster,” he said, ^‘doan’ you 
tekdathoss! It’s Miss Fanny’s boss. Tek 
me an’ sell me, I’se worth as much as a 
boss; but for God Almighty’s sake, doan’ 
tech Black Bob !” 

Even after Fanny had said, ^‘Hush, 
Buck, don’t you see it’s me!” the negro 
remained on his knees in a state of stupe- 
faction. ^^Get up, Buck,” the girl entreated, 
^ ‘ and go and wake Martha and send her to 
me. I’ve been out on Bob — went to Colonel 
Long’s camp to save Captain MacDonald.” 

‘‘Is you, honey!” rejoined Buck. “You 
is your pa’s own chile!” 

Buck returned shortly with Martha, and 
after dispatching her for her clothes. Fan- 


114 DONALD Macdonald 


ny was able to don them in the stable and 
meet her mother at the breakfast table as 
if nothing had happened. 

A half hour after leaving Colonel Young, 
Don walked up the steps at Wickland, as 
Buck said, just as if he had never been 
away. He received a hearty welcome from 
them all, and it was a relief to Fanny to 
learn from Don that he suspected Green of 
sending a messenger to Colonel Long’s 
camp, after all. 


CHAPTER XIV 


After breakfast Mrs. Wickliffe asked 
Don to go with Fanny to superintend the 
felling of some trees in a bit of woodland 
not far from the house. 

It was a perfect day in summer, and as 
Donald and Fanny walked through the 
lovely bit of woodland Donald realized 
fully that he was very glad to be alive. 

All woodsey things seemed to be in mo- 
tion. On the bough above them a gray 
squirrel sat upon his haunches ; a robin red- 
breast scurried through the underbrush, 
and not far away the musical sound , ‘‘Bob 
White, Bob White,’’ echoed and re-echoed 
through the wood. 

Kentucky is a rolling country, and as 
Donald and Fanny reached the highest 
knoll a sudden impulse seized Don. 
“Come,” he said, “let us run down this 
hill!” He held out his hand, and putting 
her hand in his, down they ran together. 
Reaching the bottom of the hill Donald 

115 


116 DONALD Macdonald 


asked her to wait and rest a moment and 
Fanny seated herself upon the trunk of a 
fallen tree. Not far away the sound of the 
axe could be heard distinctly and Buck^s 
voice singing. Donald seated himself be- 
side her. Fanny ’s hands had fallen in her 
lap. They were such beautiful hands to 
Don — firm, strong, capable hands ! Donald 
hesitated a moment and then there came to 
him an uncontrollable impulse and he 
reached over and placed his hands upon 
both of hers. She lifted her eyes to his. 
The color rushed into her face and was re- 
flected in Don^s. The man’s lips twitched, 
and steadying what he had left of his voice 
he said, quietly : ‘ ‘ Fanny, you know I love 
you. Will you marry me!” 

And so we leave them for a time, leave 
them with the summer sunlight pouring 
down upon them. 

On their return to the house Donald not 
only astonished Mrs. Wickliffe by asking 
for her daughter’s hand, but not content 
with this he demanded an early marriage. 

‘‘How early!” anxiously asked Mrs. 
Wicklitfe, and when Donald replied two 
weeks, she clapped her hands over her ears 
and ran from the room. 


DONALD MacDonald 117 


It was not to be expected that Mrs. Wick- 
liffe would consent to such a speedy mar- 
riage, but by dint of constant nagging, nu- 
merous trips from Louisville, where he was 
stationed, and even the added persuasion 
of a relative who, he had found out, was an 
intimate friend of the Wicklifte family, 
Don did manage to shorten his engagement. 

Mrs. Wickliffe’s consent was really only 
won by the promise that until the war was 
over Fanny could stay at home, except 
upon occasions when she could in safety 
join her husband for a few days. 

The engagement had caused a good deal 
of gossip in old Bardstown. That Fanny 
Wickliffe would marry a Yankee officer was 
something her old Southern sweethearts 
had not expected. But the night of her 
wedding all feeling of resentment was 
thrown aside, and all friends within twen- 
ty miles were present at the ceremony. 

Some half-dozen guerrillas, unbidden, 
were there, and enjoyed the view of the 
newly married pair from the porch win- 
dows, being considerate enough to send the 
groom word that they wouldnT shoot him 
that night, but would save him up for a fu- 
ture occasion. 


118 DONALD Macdonald 


Fanny Wickliffe had an old-time South- 
ern wedding; friends and relatives gath- 
ered from far and near, to do honor to the 
handsome girl and boy, for they were real- 
ly hardly more. The dear old house was 
decorated from top to bottom, and Don’s 
uniform and the uniforms of his brother of- 
ficers brightened the scene. 

MacDonald had decided to take his bride 
to Louisville for their wedding trip, and 
there Colonel Aris Throckmorton of the 
Galt House, a relative of Don’s, insisted 
that they should be his guests. 

Fanny and MacDonald had been married 
a few weeks when, in company with a party 
of friends, they spent the evening at the 
opera. It happened to be a snowy night, 
and upon their return Colonel Throckmor- 
ton insisted that everybody should enjoy a 
glass of good Kentucky punch. 

Some hours after they had retired Fan- 
ny awoke with a feeling of terror, and rais- 
ing herself upon her elbow she listened in- 
tently. Suddenly she jumped from the bed 
and hurried to the window. The street was 
filled with people ! The Galt House was on 
fire! To wake Don she found was an al- 
most impossible task. He slept in spite of 


DONALD Macdonald 119 


repeated calls. Finally, in desperation she 
fell upon him and beat him with her fists. 
Then he sprang up hastily, and snatched 
the spread from the bed and threw it over 
his wife. Upon his throwing open the door 
the smoke poured in, almost stifling them, 
but, pulling the spread over Fanny’s head, 
Don rushed out. 

Passing quickly through the hall he no- 
ticed that most of the doors stood wide 
open, showing that the occupants had es- 
caped; that is, all the doors but one. Put- 
ting Fanny down, he said, ‘^This will not 
do. I must give this fellow a chance. ’ ’ Vig- 
orously he kicked and banged upon the 
door; it opened and, to Don’s surprise, on 
the threshold, clad only in his nightshirt, 
stood John Tracy. Without a word Don- 
ald picked up Fanny and made his way 
down-stairs. 

As they watched the flames lick up all 
that remained of the dear old Galt House, 
Fanny leaned wearily against her husband, 
who had managed to add a pair of trousers 
to his costume, which had been composed 
entirely of a Galt House bedspread. Put- 
ting his hand on his wife’s face he found it 
was wet with tears. 


120 DONALD MacDONALD 


‘^Do not cry, my darling. We have each 
other. What is the loss of our clothes com- 
pared to that?’^ 

“Yes,’’ replied the wife, “I am thankful 
we are spared. But, Donald, what shall we 
do? You cannot go to duty with notliing 
but a Galt House bedspread!” 

When John Tracy awoke at the sound 
of Donald’s knocks and rushed to the door 
and found his old enemy standing on the 
threshold he could not have been more as- 
tonished had the ground opened and swal- 
lowed him. 

He knew of Sheffield’s death, of Don’s 
brevet for courage at the first battle of Bull 
Bun, and of his marriage to “the beautiful 
Miss Wickliffe,” as the men of MacDon- 
ald’s regiment called her, but he had not 
seen Don since they left the Point. 

To do Red J ohn justice, he had been en- 
tirely made over by his love for Aimee, and 
would have given his life in a moment to 
shield her from the disgrace that he felt 
some day would surely come to her — that 
of finding out she was not a wife, and that 
the man she loved and trusted was a biga- 
mist. 

A good deal of John’s courage had left 


DONALD Macdonald 121 


him, and such was his nervous state that 
he sometimes fonnd himself starting at ev- 
ery sound. He wished from the bottom of 
his heart that Kitty would die, or that the 
war would last forever, for only on the field 
could he feel safe. When peace was de- 
clared and John took his place in the gar- 
rison, what would become of him then? His 
father would send his wife to him, and 
Aimee — ^what in the name of Heaven would 
become of her? There was only one way 
out of it for him, and that way was one he 
could not bear to think of. 

The morning following the fire he sought 
out Don. The MacDonalds had gone to a 
friend’s house while waiting for some 
clothes to be sent them from Bardstown. 

The card that the servant brought to Don 
merely bore the sentence, classmate of 
yours,” and Don ran joyfully down-stairs 
to meet him. Donald drew back when he 
entered the room and confronted Bed J ohn. 

'‘MacDonald,” said Tracy, “I know you 
have never been my friend, hut I owe my 
life to you, and I have come to thank you 
for it. And,” he continued, somewhat lame- 
ly, "and now that Sheffield has gone, per- 


122 DONALD MacDONALD 


haps you may come to regard me more 
kindly. ’ ’ 

At the mention of Sheffield’s name Don- 
ald hastily turned to the window and stood 
looking out until the emotion that always 
came at the mention of his friend’s name 
passed away. Walking back to Tracy, he 
said : 

‘‘I have something to say to you, and I 
intend to speak plainly. When we were to- 
gether at the Point you managed to have 
Sheffield accused of theft. Do you know 
who I have always believed took the money 
the boys missed I” 

‘‘No,” returned Tracy, “I do not.” 

“Well,” replied Don, “you yourself. 
Now don’t get excited about it. I have al- 
ways thought so. You put upon a boy I 
loved as well as my own brother the stigma 
of theft, and he carried it to his grave. 
Surely,” continued MacDonald, coldly, 
“you do not expect me to be your friend. 
I cannot. I could shake your hand and say, 
‘Certainly, old chap, certainly,’ but it 
would be a lie, and I will not tell a lie for 
you. I can say, and truthfully, that I wish 
you well for your wife’s sake and that is 
all.” 


DONALD Macdonald 123 


‘ ‘ I thouglit, now that yon are married, ^ ’ 
said Bed John, with a good deal of the 
manner Don knew so well, ‘‘that perhaps 
yon had forgiven 

“Neither yonr marriage nor mine has 
had anything to do with my feeling for 
yon,’' rejoined Don. “I am sorry, Tracy, 
hnt I wish yon had not come. ’ ’ 

“As matters have tnrned ont,” replied 
John, “it wonld have been a saving of time 
if I had not. ’ ’ And with all of his old bra- 
vado John Tracy passed ont of the room. 


CHAPTEE XV 


The Shamrock has not changed since we 
saw it last. Here the same cronies of old 
man Tracy meet to read and relate the 
news of the war. 

After Eed John’s acknowledgment of 
Kitty as his wife she had taken up her 
home at The Shamrock^ and to the old man 
she was a kind and gentle daughter. 

Pretty Kitty’s child had died when it 
was born, much to John’s relief and to his 
father’s sorrow. Tracy’s letters home were 
few and far between, and were sent first to 
a classmate as far West as the armies were 
engaged and then remailed by him to The 
Shamrock in New York. The letters he 
wrote to Kitty were never lover-like now. 
In fact they were usually filled with recitals 
of his many dangers, and could have been 
written to anybody. 

Kitty and her father-in-law were sitting 
together one pleasant evening on the side- 
walk in front of the saloon. 

124 


DONALD Macdonald 125 

As the rockers moved back and forth, 
side by side, old Tracy put his hand out 
and laid it upon the arm of Kitty’s chair. 
“Sure,” said he, “some day, Kitty, I’ll see 
ye the grand dame. It’s a gineral’s wife 
ye ’ll be, if John pulls through. It’s a brave 
man he is entirely, and ye are a lucky gurl 
to git a mon like John.” Kitty assented 
smiling, but her heart was not in the praise. 

The circumstances that surrounded Kit- 
ty’s marriage had robbed John of all his 
glory as a man or as an officer in Kitty’s 
eyes. 

" The winter after her marriage, before 
the baby was born, Kitty kept hoping 
against hope that she would feel toward 
John as she used to, that she would love 
him as she did before she found him out ; 
but when she laid the little one away she 
knew that any feeling she had ever had for 
John lay buried in its grave. 

The old man was good to her. Aunt 
Mamie had kept the faith, and Kitty was 
able to live her life without reproach. But 
she had never forgotten that it was Father 
Hogan who had made it possible, though 
her lips were sealed. Not for the wealth of 
the world would she have disabused the old 


126 DONALD MacDONALD 


man’s mind. John was his idol, and must 
remain so. ^ ‘ Sure, ’ ’ she would say, ‘ ^ he ’s 
all the old man has. Let him think he’s a 
saint. What do I carer’ 

She never wrote to J ohn for herself. But 
often at nig^lit when the shutters were put 
up, old man Tracy would say: ^‘Now fer 
John’s letter.” And then Kitty would 
bring out the ink and the paper and pens. 
But the letter always began, ‘‘Lieutenant 
Tracy : Your father wants me to say he is 
well, and hopes you are the same.” In the 
old man’s mind they always began, “My 
dear husband” and ended, “Your loving 
wife. ’ ’ But these loving, wifely letters ex- 
isted only in the imagination of old man 
Tracy. 

The war came to an end in April, 1865, 
and immediately Donald was ordered to 
Fort Washington, and, strange to say, so 
was John Tracy. The two men took up 
their quarters almost within calling dis- 
tance of each other. They rarely met, ex- 
cept on duty, but their wives were good 
friends. 

The two families had been stationed in 
this way for some six months, when Tracy 
began to look haggard and worn, and his 


DONALD Macdonald 127 


appearance was so marked that it became a 
matter of comment among the men. He 
also began to drink too much, and this was 
a real terror to Aimee. One day she had 
been to the city, and on her return she met 
Mrs. MacDonald on the boat. What pos- 
sessed her she never knew, but she made 
her a confidante. ‘‘He loves me, I know,’^ 
lamented the poor girl, “but I cannot keep 
him straight.^’ 

This was too true, for that very night 
Donald and his wife met Tracy coming 
from the sutler ^s store. He was drunk, and 
for a moment Fanny was frightened, but 
the memory of poor Aimee ^s face deter- 
mined her upon a course of action. Tracy 
was making unsteadily for the commanding 
officer’s quarters. “Quick,” whispered 
Donald’s wife, “we must not let him go.” 

Don hung back in sheer perplexity, but 
Fanny jerked her arm from her husband’s 
and, running swiftly along the boardwalk, 
she overtook Tracy as he reached the com- 
mandant’s porch. 

‘ ‘ Where are you going, Mr. Tracy ! ’ ’ she 
asked. 

“Why,” he said, motioning toward the 


128 DONALD MacDONALD 

house, '‘lam going to tell this damned old 
fakir what I think of him.’’ 

By this time Don had joined them. "Do 
not, to-night, ’ ’ said Donald, ' ' wait until to- 
morrow. ’ ’ 

"So you are friends with me, are you!” 
fairly shouted Tracy. "Then come home 
with me.” And with Donald on one side 
and Fanny on the other, John Tracy was 
escorted to his own door. 


CHAPTER XVI 


On the morning following, Tracy awoke 
with the dull, heavy, depressed feeling of 
the man who has taken too much to drink 
the night before. As he dressed himself he 
felt that he had almost gotten to the end 
of his rope. Times without number had he 
beaten his father and Kitty off with every 
known lie and excuse, but now the time had 
come. The old man had written him direct 
to Fort Washington; not to the West, 
where he had told his father he was sta- 
tioned, but to his fort. 

Before Tracy went out to guard-mount 
that day he went up to Aimee and lifted 
her bodily in his arms. ‘‘My poor dear lit- 
tle wife, I love you dearly ! My God ! ^ ^ cried 
Tracy, straining her to his heart. “You 
donT know, Aimee, how I love you!^’ 
“Then,’^ replied the girl, “do not make 
me suffer. Do not drink any more. ’ ^ 
Tracy’s face twitched. He put her down, 

129 


130 DONALD MacDONALD 


and, raising his right hand, exclaimed in all 
earnestness: ‘‘I swear to God I never 
will!’’ Then without another word he left 
her. 

Beaching the office after the guard had 
marched off the parade-ground, he listless- 
ly turned over some letters on his desk, 
bills mostly; but there was one from his 
father. Tracy tore it open. 

‘ ‘ God ! ’ ’ He caught his breath. The mis- 
sive merely said, ^‘We will be down on 
Saturday.” Crumpling the paper in his 
hand he hurried through the main office. 

^‘Lieutenant Tracy,” Captain Grier said, 
“will you drill the men this morning? I 
want to go to town.” 

“Certainly, sir,” replied Tracy, and 
passed on. 

Just a second Tracy paused on the porch, 
then he walked rapidly toward the men’s 
quarters. Entering the barracks he sought 
the rack where all guns are kept when not 
in use. Opening a cartridge-box he selected 
a cartridge, and taking down one of the 
guns he slipped it in place. Hardly had he 
finished when the drill-call sounded and he 
was obliged to take his place on the parade- 
ground. He was a good soldier, and he 


DONALD Macdonald 131 

drilled the men carefully, in spite of his in- 
tense suffering. 

‘ ‘ Now, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ^ take aim at something. 
Have an object. Look and aim directly at 
me, and fire when I give the command.’’ 
There was an instant’s pause and then 
Tracy’s voice rang out, ‘^Fire!” There 
was a sound of a shot, and Tracy, with a 
bullet through his brain, fell backward. 
The men broke ranks and ran to lift him, 
all save the poor innocent fellow who had 
fired a loaded gun, when he had every rea- 
son in the world to believe it unloaded. He 
fell upon his knees and beggedC God to 
strike him dead. 

As Tracy is borne across the parade- 
ground poor Aimee breaks from the friends 
who try to hold her, and throws herself 
upon the mangled body. All night she lies 
partly unconscious, waking from her swoon 
to call for Eed John, and then lapses again 
into unconsciousness; and all night long 
MacDonald’s wife sits by her. 

When the morning comes they make 
ready for their distressing journey. It is 
thought that, as they are to take him to 
West Point, it is best to make the start 
before noon. Mrs. MacDonald has taken 


132 DONALD MacDONALD 

Aimee to Washington to the home of Don- 
ald’s mother, where she can make ready 
for her sad journey South. As Donald and 
another officer stand waiting for the boat 
to make fast to the pier he sees on board 
the boat, standing well up in front, a little 
wiry Irishman. When the boat comes to 
the pier this man makes his way to Donald. 

‘‘Sure, Captain,” he says, in a broken 
voice, “I hev kem fer me boy’s body.” Don- 
ald removes his cap and then tells the old 
man, for it was Tracy, that the body is al- 
ready in Washington and they are on their 
way to join it, and he adds, “His wife is 
in Washington also.” 

“His wife!” falters old Tracy. “Why, 
man alive ! she is wut me. ’ ’ 

To this Don makes no reply, but he 
thinks quickly. Turning aside he calls one 
of his lieutenants. 

‘ ‘ Lieutenant Everitt, get me a telegraph 
blank.” Writing hurriedly, Donald says, 
‘ ‘ Get out the barge crew, and send this for 
me from Alexandria. The boat must delay 
here for a while, and you can get this off 
if you are quick about it some time before 
we reach the city. ’ ’ 

The telegram read : “ Do not wait for me. 


DONALD Macdonald 133 


Will join yon at clmrch/^ and it was ad- 
dressed to Lieutenant Moss, who was in 
charge of Tracy ^s body. Donald hoarded 
the boat and left old man Tracy in conver- 
sation with the officer who stood by Don 
when Tracy had spoken to him. 

When Donald reached the church he 
found there had been some delay and the 
coffin had not yet been taken into the edi- 
fice. He went directly to the rectory, and 
found one of the priests, who told him to 
have the casket taken in and placed before 
the altar. Scarcely had the men stacked 
arms and taken their seats when the prin- 
cipal priest entered the church, seemingly 
in a state of great excitement. He was un- 
attended, wore no vestments, and apparent- 
ly had no intention of performing any fu- 
neral service. Quickly swinging the holy 
water sprinkler over the coffin, he said in 
a tone loud enough to be heard throughout 
the church, ^ ‘ Take him out of here ! ’ ’ 

The soldiers, with distress and conster- 
nation written upon their faces, ap- 
proached the coffin and lifted it upon their 
shoulders. Donald and several other offi- 
cers followed the body out of the church. 
Tracy, for whom the reproof was intended. 


134 DONALD MacDONALD 


was the only one it did not affect, for, for- 
tiinately, poor Aimee’s physical condition 
made her presence at the church impossi- 
ble. 

^Vhile the body rested on the caisson in 
front of the church and the soldiers rear- 
ranged the flag that their hasty exit from 
the church had disarranged, Donald sought 
the priest at the rectory. He found him in 
a nervous and distressed state, walking ex- 
citedly up and down the room. 

When MacDonald entered, the priest held 
out his hands and said, brokenly : ‘ ‘ Captain, 
forgive me. I could not do otherwise. ^ ^ 

‘‘Why not. Father!’^ Don asked. 

The priest put his hand on Donald’s 
shoulder. “Because,” he said, “I received 
information a few moments ago from New 
York City which makes my conducting the 
funeral service an impossibility. I need 
not detain you long enough to tell you what 
it is, but,” drawing a telegram from his 
pocket and opening it, “I could not do oth- 
erwise. ’ ’ 

Don’s mind was greatly perplexed, but 
as he turned to go the telegram slipped 
from the priest’s fingers and fluttered to 
the floor. As Donald stooped to pick it up 


DONALD Macdonald 135 


he saw that the few lines it contained were 
signed by the name ‘‘Hogan/’ and, more 
puzzled than ever, he rejoined his men. 

As the cortege got under way a carriage 
drove swiftly into the street and old man 
Tracy jumped to the ground. “Show me 
the captain in command,” he said. Ap- 
proaching Don he handed him a written 
order which read, “Hand Lieutenant 
Tracy’s body over to his father.” 

While Donald read the order a plain 
hearse, which had followed the carriage 
containing the old man and Kitty, drove 
up. Tracy’s body was transferred to it, 
and, followed only by the carriage, the 
hearse passed out of sight. 


CHAPTEE XVII 


TWENTY YEARS AFTER 

It is a lovely day in early Spring. The 
Mississippi Eiver goes rushing by old Fort 
Jackson, which wears its brightest smile; 
over in the magnolia grove the trees give 
fair promise of glorious blossoms after a 
while ; the light-blue violets are pushing up 
from the dark-brown soil. Sitting on the 
gallery of the commanding officer’s quar- 
ters we find our old friend, Donald Mac- 
Donald. He has improved his record since 
the first battle of Bull Eun, and in num- 
erous Indian campaigns has made the men 
around him realize the stuff of which he 
is made and won for himself the reputation 
of not being afraid of the devil. 

Don is handsomer now than when we first 
saw him; his shoulders are broader, and 
on his temples his hair shows a slight 
touch of gray. The old-time shyness has 
186 


DONALD Macdonald 137 


left Mm, and few men have more courtly 
manners. A good deal of this improvement 
comes from his happy marriage. Blest with 
two fine children and reasonable wealth, 
Donald MacDonald sits contentedly at 
home on the afternoon of wMch I write, 
and feels at peace with the world. The day 
has been a trifle sultry, and his wife has re- 
tired to her room to forget, if she can, the 
New Orleans weather. A sentry passes up 
and down before the house, and Don, who 
has thrown his newspaper aside, is almost 
dozing when he hears his orderly’s voice 
say, ^‘A lady to see you, sir.” 

Donald rises to his feet, buttoning Ms 
blouse as he does so. His eyes turn to the 
door that opens on the porch, and he re- 
strains his impulse to rub his eyes. Stand- 
ing there, holding apart the green curtains, 
he sees — who does he see? 

Twenty years slip by Don as though 
borne on the river that laps its bank so 
near at hand. Once more he is a cadet. He 
is standing at noon-day, looking over the 
glare of the Hudson Eiver. Once more he 
pulls his forage-cap tightly down over Ms 
eyes, and there is a dull working at his 
heart that amounts to pain. Once more he 


138 DONALD MacDONALD 

sees a brown-eyed girl in yellow muslin, 
and bears her say, ‘‘I do not love you at 
alL^’ 

Once more be lifts tbe bloody rag and 
wipes poor Tracy’s face. He bears Aimee’s 
cry to God for mercy. Once again tbe cbill 
of tbe cburcb strikes through him. He bears 
tbe clatter of tbe men as they stack their 
arms, and then the horror of being ordered 
from tbe cburcb, and tbe rebellious feeling 
that the Christ would not have denied tbe 
body this last poor comfort. Will tbe ap- 
parition ever speak? Tbe scent of tbe 
china-berry trees that are in full bloom fill 
tbe air, but Don does not wake. 

Finally tbe girl, for girl she is, breaks 
tbe silence, and her words are common- 
place enough. 

‘‘Have I the honor of addressing Major 
MacDonald?” 

“You have,” responds Donald, with his 
best bow. 

“My name,” continues tbe girl, “is John 
Tracy. It was my father’s name. I was 
born shortly after bis death, and my 
mother wanted me to bear bis name. She 
also told me to come to you if I ever wanted 
to bear of my father, and I thought, before 


DONALD Macdonald 139 


I am married and change my name/^ with 
pretty confusion, ^‘that I would like to see 
my father’s old classmate and hear him 
speak my father’s name. I know,” she 
added, reaching over and laying her hand 
for just one second on Don’s, ‘Hhat when 
my father was killed in that dreadful acci- 
dent what you and your wife were to my 
dear mother.” 

For one brief second Don’s heart quails, 
but the summer breeze brings to him the 
sounds of his own daughter’s laughter 
from the tennis-court below, and in one in- 
stant he places her in the place of this fa- 
therless girl. 

He sees the pretty face of Eed John’s 
daughter flush with eagerness and Donald 
girds up his courage and prepares himself 
for the lie of his life. 

Leaning back in his chair he brushes 
away any thought of the old Point. This 
is the time for action, and not for dream- 
ing ; not even the thought of Sheffield shall 
come in here, for Sheffield is dead, and here 
is a live heart to deal with. 

Young, untried, the girl faces the world, 
the father in Don tells him, trusting, lov- 
ing, leaning upon every one, and Don 


140 DONALD MacDONALD 


swears to himself that he will lie like a pi- 
rate before she shall wrest the truth from 
him. For it does not take the half of Don^s 
cleverness to see that from the girl poor 
ilimee has carefully hidden the truth, and 
that to his child John Tracy is a hero, and 
tiiat she has sent the girl to Donald, feel- 
ing sure he will guard her secret well. 

Donald brushes the hair from his fore- 
head and leans back in his chair. 

wish, my dear young lady, you could 
have seen your father. He was the hand- 
somest man in his class by long odds, and 
no man had greater courage than he. ’ ’ 

For half an hour Don’s voice rose and 
fell, and, when he finished, Eed John, his 
old-time foe, bore a character for courage 
in his little daughter’s mind that existed 
nowhere else. 

For just a few moments after Don’s tale 
the girl gently wipes her eyes. 

'Ht is not every one,” she adds, ‘'who 
has had a father like mine. ’ ’ 

‘No, indeed,” replies Don, “there are 
really very few.” 

Shortly after this Don is joined by his 
wife and the members of the tennis party 
from the court below. Mrs. MacDonald is 


DONALD Macdonald mi 


glad to meet the beautiful girl, and tells her 
of the beauty of her mother when she was 
scarcely older than she, her daughter, is to- 
day. 

Donald has for his daughter the same 
tender affection all soldiers carry in their 
hearts for their daughters. The boy is all 
right, God bless him! but the girl — there 
is something in a soldier ^s heart that only 
a girl can touch. 

It happens to-day that his daughter seats 
herself upon the wide seat of his rocker 
and, putting her arm around him and her 
soft cheek against his, she says, in a low 
tone, as they rock back and forth together : 

‘^Do you think, dad. I’ll ever be able to 
beat that adjutant of yours? He’s beaten 
me o:ff the face of the earth to-day.” 

‘‘Never give up, my lass,” responds Don, 
who knows the tending of the lieutenant’s 
mind and feels quite sure of his lassie’s 
winning in the end. 

It’s a gay party gathered together al- 
most on the banks of the old Mississippi. 
The first call for retreat has sounded be- 
fore John Tracy’s daughter rises to go. 

“One moment,” says Don, and then, 


142 DONALD MacDONALD 


aside to the servant, bring some cham- 
pagne.’’ 

When the bottles are opened and the 
shining tray of glasses goes around among 
the guests, Don takes his glass, and, as he 
does so, he rises from his seat. Waiting 
until all are served, Don says, still keeping 
his arm around the shoulders of his Tilli- 
cum, as he calls his little girl: ‘^One mo- 
ment, my good friends and brother offi- 
cers,” to the four or five men who have 
joined them. want you to join me in a 
toast.” And as the men stand in half- 
embarrassed silence, Don lifts his voice 
and says: ‘^Gentlemen, the memory of 
John Tracy, an old classmate of mine,” 
and he adds, touching his glass softly 
against his wife’s glass, ^^May God bless 
and help us all. ’ ’ 




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